Picking Locks
by Mourningdawns
Summary: It all starts with picking locks...Neal reveals his past to Peter. Neal/Peter friendship and H/C, set a few years in into the series.  Something of a sequel to 'Rules for Dealing', but can be read as a stand-alone.  Complete.
1. Chapter 1

IMPORTANT A.N: This takes place in the undetermined future. Probably several years.

As the craziness at the end of the bust was dying down, Agent Burke suddenly became aware of something. Or rather, a lack of something. The ever-present narration of Neal Caffrey was absent. Sweeping his trained gaze across the scene, he picked out the hunched form from all the others. Trepidation seeped into his veins as he rushed closer.

"Neal?" The hunched man straightened slightly, looking over his shoulder at Peter, not quite able to hide the anxiety in his eyes. A hand covered his mouth and nose. "Neal, you ok?" Eyes wide, the consultant shook his head. "What's wrong?" He tried to pull Neal's hand away, but the younger man flinched and shied away. "Hey, hey hey…C'mon, Neal, what happened?" Peter knelt down in front of Neal, for the first time noticing the dark red stains on his shirt. Neal dropped his hand slowly, closing his eyes. He didn't want to see Peter's reaction.

Peter drew a sharp breath at the sight before him. Neal's lips were bloodied, the lower one looked split and an abrasion was obvious between his chin and the tip of his nose. But the most dramatic sight was the blood that was running out of the consultant's nose.

"I think you broke your nose, Neal." Peter finally managed. Neal cracked one eye, looking at Peter with growing dislike.

"Really? I habn't nodiced, Peder." The distortion to his speech made Peter's mouth twitch as he tried to keep from smiling.

"C'mon, let's go get that looked at." Neal sighed and stood. He swayed slightly, unsteady on his feet. Peter put an arm around his shoulders, like friends do, and guided him slowly to the car. Sitting Neal in the passenger seat, he felt sorry for the con as he leaned back against the headrest, seeming completely wiped out. "Alright. Stay put while I go get Jones to secure the scene." Neal opened his eyes, conveying understanding without movement. Peter turned, crossing the scene with long strides until coming across his junior agents.

"Jones. You're in charge. You and Cruz, secure the scene."

"What are you gonna do, boss?" Jones asked, his question mirrored in Cruz' gaze.

"Think Caffrey broke his nose. Gonna go get him checked out." The junior agents nodded.

"Tell him we hope he feels better soon." Cruz said as left. Peter walked back over to Neal, hand coming to rest on the still-open car door.

"Neal? You awake?" The consultant's eyes flew opened. He regretted it almost instantly.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. Awake. I am." Peter shook his head.

"Watch out, closing the door." Neal grumbled a little, but drew himself farther from the doorway before it closed. The drive to the hospital was quiet, Neal hardly even opening his eyes. His head hurt. It felt like someone had tried to remove half his face with a cheese-grater. Even his eyes hurt. When he did open them, all he could think about was closing them again. Everything was so bright and it was all moving so fast…It almost made him feel sick. And Peter's driving was definitely leaving something to be desired.

Finally, they reached the hospital. Peter had to help Neal into the Emergency Room, supporting him more than he had at the crime scene. Once inside, he deposited the consultant in a chair before filling out the necessary paperwork. Neal didn't have to ask how Peter knew so much about him and Peter knew it was best just to leave the 'family history' section blank without asking questions.

Neal thought the ER was too loud. His lips and nose throbbed in time, leaving Neal counting his pulse, trying to stay awake. He didn't want to fall asleep though, not in those uncomfortable chairs. But he was tired. Too tired for someone who had already had two coffees that day. Then again, headaches always made him tired.

It was several hours later when Neal and Peter left the hospital. The doctor had concluded that Neal's nose was indeed broken, had put a couple stitches in his lower lip and cleaned up the abrasions. He had also determined that Neal's headache was the result of a concussion. He'd recommended to Peter that Neal find someone to stay with for the night, just in case. Finally, the doctor had written a prescription for pain killers, to treat both the headache and the nose pain.

"You're gonna stay with El and me tonight." Peter declared as he started the car. Neal closed his eyes. When did Peter start talking so loud? "I called her a little while ago. She's getting the guest bedroom ready." Neal knew Peter was saying that just so he wouldn't object.

"Mkah." The weary con mumbled. He was too tired to argue; besides that, he was looking forward to El's cooking. Or, at least, he thought he was. His stomach clenched at the thought of food. He felt his throat tighten and he swallowed hard. Peter's driving skills seemed to have deteriorated rapidly. Shouldn't federal agents drive better than this? Wasn't there a test or something? He swallowed again. It must have caught Peter's attention, because in the next second, he heard –and felt- the man's voice as he spoke, his head throbbing.

"Neal? You ok?" Peter glanced at Neal as he changed lanes. The younger man was definitely paler than he had been in the hospital. He wasn't just pale though, his face had a slight green hint to it; and all those years Peter had thought that only happened in cartoons.

"I'b fime.", Came the stuffy-nosed reply. Neal swallowed again. Leaning his head back against the seat, he counted his breaths, trying to calm his rolling stomach. He reached one hundred and four before he felt his stomach shudder, a burning sensation slowly rising in his throat. "Peder, pull ober." He covered his mouth with a hand, wincing when he brushed his bottom lip. Stitches, right. Peter pulled the car over and Neal managed to remove himself enough that he didn't mess up the vehicle's interior.

Peter waited a minute and then made his way around to the passenger side. Neal had fallen out of the car, on his hands and knees, and was now gagging. Awkwardly, Peter stood behind him, unsure of what to do. Finally, he knelt next to his partner, rubbing the space between his shoulder blades. Dry heaves wracked the younger man's body and Peter could feel sweat dampening the fabric under his hand.

"Hey, hey, calm down, buddy. C'mon, deep breaths. Just calm down." Neal gagged again, but produced nothing for his efforts. Peter pulled him up until he was sitting. Neal panted, unable to breathe through his broken nose. He leaned back against the car, savoring the cool metal against his over-warmed body. Peter stood again, brushing off his knees before turning his attention back to his partner. The younger man's cheeks were flushed a bright pink color, sweat flattening his hair. He looked miserable.

"Feeling better?" Neal opened his eyes slowly.

"Oh, yeah, Peder. Neber bedder." Peter chuckled and pulled Neal to his feet, steadying him when he leaned too far forward. Neal closed his eyes as nausea swept over him again. Peter actually saw the color drain from his face.

"Alright, alright, sit down." Neal sat down heavily in the passenger seat, groaning as the sudden motion jarred his head. "Yeah, yeah, I know. C'mon, let's go fill your prescription and then get you to bed. Ok?"

"Okah." Was Neal's quiet reply as he sank into the seat. His head was killing him. He heard Peter talking but he couldn't make out the words. Everything blurred together into a persistent buzzing sound. Oh well, it probably wasn't important anyway. He closed his eyes and slouched even lower. Maybe Peter would think he was asleep and leave him alone. Then, he felt something reach across his body. Eyes flying open, he saw Peter leaning across him. Peter met his eyes and gave him a frustrated look. The agent fastened Neal's seat belt.

"I asked you to twice." He offered as an explanation. Neal hummed in acknowledgement. He closed his eyes again, not opening them until the car stopped in front of the Burke's home. With Peter's help, he managed to stumble inside, where he was transferred to the motherly care of Elizabeth. He was laid on the couch, while El fawned over him as Peter stood in the background, gently tut-ing his disapproval. El ignored him. After only five minutes, the con was settled on the couch, his shoes removed, covered in a blanket, his medicines taken and an ice-pack on his head.

"Tankth" he mumbled before he succumbed to sleep. El smiled and brushed his hair off his face, kissing his forehead as though he were a young child before turning to face her husband. She gestured for him to follow her into the kitchen, where they could talk without disturbing the consultant. Though, Peter was of the opinion that a bomb detonating over the coffee table wouldn't wake the sleeping man. Not with those drugs on-board.

"How did Neal get hurt?" El asked, twirling her hair around one finger, looking at Peter expectantly. Over the years, she'd grown attached to Peter's partner, adopting him as almost part of the family.

"I didn't see. It was the end of a bust. I guess he fell or someone pushed him. He's fine, El." She sighed and nodded.

"I know, I know. But I _worry_ about the two of you. Every time either of you call from work, I think the worst." Peter pulled her close, planting a kiss on her forehead. She wrapped her arms around him, not letting go.

"It's just a broken nose and a concussion. He's fine." He repeated. Elizabeth looked up at him.

"But what if it had gone differently?"

"But it didn't, El. Don't worry." He kissed her again. He loved her but he hated that his job made her worry. It was just worse now that Neal was involved, giving El another person to fret over. She smiled up at him.

"I know I shouldn't. But wouldn't you worry if my job was more dangerous?" He gave her a lop-sided grin.

"How do you make a catering company dangerous?" He couldn't resist trying to lighten the mood. El returned his smile.

"Well, I could start juggling knives on the side." She teased. He chuckled at the thought.

"I think I'd get you a first-aid kit." She laughed and playfully smacked his arm. The two enjoyed a quiet dinner together, letting Neal sleep peacefully on the couch under the watchful eye of Satchmo. As they were finishing their meal, El gently broached a new subject.

"Are you working tomorrow?"

"No. I got the day off. Case's closed, anyway." She smiled.

"That's great because I'm going to be so busy tomorrow. We're doing a-" She would have continued with her upcoming hectic schedule, but Neal stumbling into the kitchen interrupted her. "Neal, is everything ok?" She stood to meet him, placing her hands on his upper arms to steady him. Peter rose as well, unsure what to do. Neal looked down at El, his eyes dull and unfocused. "Neal?" Suddenly, Peter smiled.

"It's just the drugs, El." Then he addresses Neal "C'mon, let's get you back to the couch, kid." Peter guided the younger man to the sofa before laying him back down. Neal closed his bleary eyes and fell back into slumber.

El smiled as she watched the scene. Peter turned and looked at her, rolling his eyes.

"Neal gets loopy on painkillers. It could be worse." She laughed quietly as they made their way back into the kitchen.

"Well, hopefully you can handle it yourself, because I'm not going to make it home until late tomorrow." Peter groaned at what that statement meant for him; he'd be home alone with Neal- all day.

Dun dun DUHN! The explanations start next chapter, I promise. And just so you all know, writing stuffy-nosed Neal is super fun. It's so adorable!


	2. Chapter 2

To Peter's relief, Neal slept most of the evening, including through the game. Elizabeth had gone to bed early, so she would be well-rested for her busy day tomorrow. Peter figured he could stay up a little later, though. It's not like watching Neal was going to be very hard. Maybe he could just keep him doped up on painkillers all day…

Peter continued this thinking as he was brushing his teeth, standing in front of the mirror in his pajamas. Suddenly, the door behind him opened. Peter turned quickly, one hand starting toward his hip before he remembered he wasn't carrying. Not that it mattered; standing in the doorway was Neal. Peter sighed. Hadn't Neal learned how to knock? And hadn't Peter locked that door?

"Did you grow up in a barn? You're suppose to knock." Neal looked at him confusedly.

"Budt it wad locked." He still sounded horrible. Peter finished brushing his teeth under the drug-influenced gaze before turning back to his partner.

"It was locked because I didn't want people barging. Guess I need to buy a new door knob, since that one's busted." Neal shook his head.

"Doe. It's fime."

"It must be broke if you just waltzed in." Peter started to lead Neal down the hall to the guest room. Neal ended up sleeping there so often, they really should just start calling it Neal's room.

"Didn't waltz."  
"Then how-"

"Picked it." Peter rolled his eyes.

"You can hardly untie your shoes. How am I suppose to believe you picked a lock?"

"Because I did."

"Alright, keep telling yourself that, kiddo. Let's get you to bed."

"Doe. I'll show you." Stopping in front of the guest room, Neal locked the door and closed it. He looked at Peter for a moment, a goofy smile spreading across his face. Then he reached down and fiddled with the door knob for a moment before he could open it. Smiling contentedly, he pressed one of El's bobby pins into Peter's hand. "See? I told you so." Peter sighed and guided Neal into the room

"Alright." He sat Neal down on the bed, smiling amusedly as Neal fell back into the pillows with an almost child-like grin. "How can you pick a lock like this? You're stoned."

"I've been picking locks since I was five. It was bound to stick." Neal mumbled as he pulled the blankets over himself. He closed his eyes and was out before Peter could inquire further. But, boy, did that little remark sure give Peter a lot to think about. Picking locks since he was five? What kind of kid had Caffrey been? One that must have been hard as hell to hide Christmas presents from, Peter mused, smiling in the dark. Drifting off, he told himself he'd have to ask, have to dig deeper and get more answers.

Morning found agent Burke waking alone. He sighed, not looking forward to an entire day with drugged Neal. Remembering what he had decided last night, though, he realized that the day could be quite insightful. After dressing and washing up in the bathroom, he made his way downstairs, stopping short when he smelled something cooking in the kitchen. Something delicious. Walking quietly, he crept closer, until he could see what was going on. Standing in the kitchen was Neal, cooking what looked like pancakes and eggs. And bacon. Without turning, the con suddenly called out.

"Peter, stop staring at me." Peter flushed slightly and stepped into the kitchen, clearing his throat before speaking.

"What exactly are you doing?" Neal didn't look up as he flipped pancakes.

"Your powers of deduction must be off in the morning. I'm making breakfast, Peter." Peter rolled his eyes and walked closer. He wanted to chastise the younger man for messing around in his kitchen, but the food looked too good. That could wait until after they ate.

Sitting across from Neal, Peter had a good look at the damage his face had taken the previous day. Violently purple bruising extended from his chin to his nose and it looked like at least one black eye had begun to become apparent. His lower lip was swollen. Peter couldn't look at the stitches for too long; they were detrimental to his appetite. The way Neal was holding his head led Peter to believe that the consultant had forgone his medicines that morning. That might be for the better.

"This is actually really good." Peter said after swallowing a bite. Neal looked up at him, lips twitching into an amused smile.

"I think I'll ignore how surprised you sound and take it as a complement." Neal sounded better. Peter guessed the swelling had gone down at least a little.

"Where'd you learn to cook?" He asked, helping himself to another serving. It was _really _good. He caught himself thinking of ways to get Neal to cook more often.

"Oh, here and there. Just picked it up." Peter rolled his eyes. Everything was so damned easy for Caffrey. It wasn't fair. "You know, we didn't always have a lot of options. It's not like we could go out and get dinner at some nice restaurant. You took care of that." Peter nodded slightly, conceding to the point.

After the table was cleared and the dishwasher loaded, the two men made their way into the living room. Seated on the couch, Neal sunk back into the pillows. His head hurt. He hoped Peter hadn't noticed, but the agent probably had. At least he had the decency not to tell Neal to take his pills. They watched the morning news together, speculating on some of the crimes that had been reported and scoffing at the weather report.

"Partly sunny, my foot." Peter grumbled, looking out at the dreary New York sky. A rain drop splattered on the window and he exhaled heavily. Never trust weathermen. As the steady pitter-patter of rain grew louder, Peter turned his attention back to his partner.

"Why did you learn to pick a lock when you were five?" He blurted out. Direct was probably the way to go; no way could he weasel information out of Neal Caffrey. Neal smiled at him a little.

"Did I really say that?"

"Yes. Why?" Peter wasn't going to let Neal change the subject.

"Because I was drugged." Peter wanted to slap him on the head, but he remembered the concussion and stilled his hand.

"Why did you learn that?" Neal sighed. It wouldn't hurt to tell Peter now. Not like he could do anything with the information.

"If I tell you this, will you not tell anyone else? No writing it down, no looking it up, no smoke signals." Peter smiled at that.

"Yeah. Sure."

"My dad taught me." Peter nodded. He'd never heard Neal talk about his father before. On a couple occasions he'd mentioned his mother, but not very often and not very clearly.

"Why would he teach you that?" Neal shrugged, looking down at himself instead of at Peter. He was still wearing one of Peter's old shirts and a pair of borrowed sweats. He tried not to think about the shirt he wasn't able to save. It had been a good shirt.

"He taught me because I asked. He was into petty theft. Nothing major."

"No paintings?" Peter teased lightly. Neal gave a half smile, still thinking about his childhood.

"No paintings." He confirmed. "Dad was more of a practical items type of guy. Or, as practical as a bottle of vodka is, anyways." Peter frowned.

"Your dad an alcoholic?" Neal shrugged.

"I didn't think so. He drank. He was a great guy…at least, I thought he was. When I was a kid, I looked up to him a lot."

"So that's why you wanted to pick locks? 'Cause dad did?"

"Yeah. He taught me on my fifth birthday. Even nicked one of those lock picking kits from the station for me."

"How thoughtful." Peter mumbled. Neal shrugged. He wasn't going to tell Peter he'd loved that kit. He looked over at Peter.

"Mind if I take a nap? Might take the edge off this headache."

"Don't let me stop you." Peter expected Neal to go upstairs, but he didn't mind when he simply switched seats to be in the recliner. Even though it was _his_ recliner. Neal was asleep within minutes.

Peter wondered how much trouble that headache was giving him, if maybe he should have been more adamant about Neal taking his pain killers. He stopped himself. Neal was an adult; he could take care of himself. Not that he'd ever once proven that in their years together. He sighed and flipped channels on the television, mindful to keep the volume down. A sleeping Neal was an easy Neal to watch. He wasn't going to complicate things.

Neal was surprised by how tired he was. Of course, he'd had a hard time sleeping after the drugs had worn off. Making breakfast had just been a distraction. He'd been worried about his head hurting and not knowing how serious his concussion was or wasn't. He couldn't bring himself to look in a mirror. If his face looked half as bad as it felt, he didn't want to see it. Thoughts of his conversation with Peter clouded his mind, infiltrating his dreams…

_Five year old Neal had wanted nothing more than to be like his dad. His dad was cool. Possibly the coolest dad in the history of ever; but he hadn't verified that yet. So, when his dad taught him how to pick a lock for his birthday, it was awesome. _

_ In kindergarten, he was able to put his new skill to use for the first time. He snuck his kit to school in the over-sized pocket of his overalls. When the teacher announced it was snack time, Neal asked if he could go to the bathroom. She let him go and he left quickly. He went passed the bathroom, making his way towards the basement door, which was always kept locked. No one knew what was down there. Some kids said it was where the teachers lived but a few of the older kids said it was a haunted dungeon, the kind of place they sent the really, _really _bad kids. Neal thought it might have been a combination of the two and that it had a pool. What else would teachers have for fun?_

_ After a few minutes, he found the right pick, just like his dad had shown him. Only moments after that, he had the door open and was heading down the stairs to the basement. The stairs creaked and the lights were dim. Neal had been scared but he forced himself to keep going. He hadn't picked the lock just to pick a lock, he reasoned. He wanted to see what was down here. _

_ When he reached the bottom, he was disappointed. The basement was large, but mostly empty. Something that looked like the water heater in his basement stood in one corner and several boxes and piles of books in another. There was no place for teachers to live, nothing that looked like a dungeon and no pool. There was, however, a great deal of dust. Neal sat for a few minutes on the bottom step, watching as a daddy-long-leg spider walked past him. Finally, he stood, kicking a bit of the dust with his foot. This was stupid! He'd done all that work for nothing! Looking around the room, he decided that the least he could do while he was down there was to get rid of the dust. Maybe the teachers used to live there but it got too dirty. With a large dust broom he found discarded under the staircase, he began to run across the floors, smiling as dust flew everywhere. At least it wasn't on the floor any more. Suddenly, the fire alarm sounded. Panic gripped Neal and he ran up the stairs and out the near-by door. Catching his breath, he released he was _covered _in dust. He brushed it off quickly, shaking out his hair as he made his way to the playground, where they met during every fire drill. He ran when he saw his teacher, Ms. Waller. _

_ "Ms. Waller, Ms. Waller!" He yelled as made his way towards her. She turned, smiling when she saw her only missing student. _

_ "Oh, Neal. Were you in the bathroom when the fire alarm went off?" He nodded, looking down. He didn't want to lie to her, but he couldn't exactly tell her where he had been. "That must have been scary." He nodded. It had been. Being all alone in the basement, with the alarm going had left young Neal a little shaken. "Come on. Let's get you back with everyone else, ok?" She took his hand and led him through the throng of people to where her class sat in a sort of line, playing hand clapping games. As he calmed down, Neal noticed sirens. The fire department never came when they practiced fire drills. He gulped at the thought. If the school burned down, his Scooby-doo backpack would burn up too. _

_ "Ms. Waller? Is the school going to burn down?" She looked down at him and smiled._

_ "No, the school will be just fine. The firefighters are just coming to check on everything, just in case. Why don't you go play with the other kids while we wait, ok?" Reassured, he nodded and scampered towards his friends, joining in a rousing game of red-rover that the teachers were watching disapprovingly. _

Neal woke slowly. At first, he was confused by the noises in the background, but he soon recognized it as Peter's TV. Stretching and yawning, he smiled as he remembered that first time he'd picked a lock, unwittingly setting off the old fire alarm with all that dust. He would have gotten a spanking for that if he'd gotten caught, that was for sure. It reminded him of what his dad had always said: 'If it'll get you in trouble, don't do it. If you do it anyways, don't get caught.'

"Hey, you're awake." Peter's voice interrupted his thoughts, drawing him back to the present. Neal smiled a little, sleep still lingering heavy on his limbs.

"Yeah. Head feels better." Peter nodded. He wanted to know more about Neal's life from before he heard of him. He wanted to fill in the blanks. He knew a lot of things about Neal but he didn't know the why. He thought the answer might be somewhere in the consultant's past.

"That's good." He let a few silent beats pass before he continued. "Why couldn't I find anything when I was looking for you, Neal? Nothing. No year books, no phone books, no nothing."

"You have my birth certificate." Neal was quick to point out. Peter rolled his eyes.

"Yes and it was a lovely work, Neal."

"It was alright. One of my first." He chuckled a little. "Moz had to help me." Peter's curiosity was piqued. He would have to work his way up to when Neal met Mozzie, though. At the moment, he just wanted the basics.

"Where'd you live?" Neal looked over at him, grinning slightly.

"Oh, no. No, no. no. If I tell you, I'll never hear the end of it." Peter laughed.

"C'mon, Neal. Where'dja grow up?" Peter waited but Neal didn't answer. He decided to offer up a bit of information about himself. Even if Neal already knew, it was the gesture that was important. "I grew up in Northern Michigan, in a town of about 20,000 people. Pretty small compared to New York, huh?" Neal nodded, seeing through Peter's tactics, but going along with it anyway.

"Garden Valley, Oregon. Population of about 1,500. " Peter grinned.

"Oregon, huh? You might be right. You may never hear the end of this one." Neal gave a joking groan. Peter looked over at him. "When I was a kid-"

"You had a pet dinosaur? That's _so _cool, Peter."

"Very funny. So funny I might have to drug you." Neal took the threat seriously or at least pretended to. "We used to go down to this pond and fish. In the winter we played pond hockey. It was a great little place."

"Garden Valley was right along the coast. We'd bike down to the beach. Sometimes we'd stay in town though and…" Neal trailed off.

"And what?"

"No. No, you'll enjoy it too much."

"No such thing. And what?" Peter prompted.

"We'd swim in the creek and fish for crawdads." He finished quietly, thinking back to the idyllic summers of his youth. They really had been good times. He sometimes missed the small town life. It had been nice knowing everyone by name, walking down to the general store and buying a pop. But Neal Caffrey couldn't live on the perfect small-town vibe forever; he'd needed excitement, needed to live. Needed to get away.

Peter would have made a snide remark about Neal's humble beginnings, but the con looked too far gone in his memories for Peter to pull him out. He tried to picture a young Neal on a creek bank fishing, maybe barefoot with rolled-up jeans but he couldn't get it to mesh with the man he knew. Finally, he did snatch Neal from his thoughts when he spoke.

"What was your name then?" He asked softly. He didn't know what had caused the shift in the nature of the conversation, but he didn't want to break it –it was like a spell. It was strange finally knowing where Neal had spent his childhood. It wasn't how he'd imagined it. He always thought Neal was from a big city, maybe San Francisco or Los Angeles. At least he'd been right about the west coast.

"Neal Peterson." Neal mumbled, holding his head with one hand. Not all of those memories were good ones and the bad ones stood out violently against the mellow background of Garden Valley. Peter frowned.

"I thought you said your head felt better. Is it hurtin' again?" Maybe Neal should take his medicine.

"Yeah. Just a headache, nothing too bad." He tried to smile cheerfully, but somewhere between the bruising and the stitches, it lost its effect. Peter's frown deepened.

"Maybe we should take you back to the doctor." Neal rolled his eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course my head hurts; I got my face bounced off the pavement like a basketball yesterday. It's not the first concussion I've had."

"You should at least take your pain killers. They didn't just give them to you for fun."

"Apparently they gave them to me for _your _amusement, because I hardly even remember yesterday after I took them. That's not something I'm eager to repeat." Peter could sympathize with that but he would feel less guilty if Neal wasn't sitting around his house in pain all day. Sensing his dilemma, Neal smiled reassuringly at him. "I'm fine. I said this wasn't my first concussion and, you know what, this isn't even the worst. I'm fine, really." Peter sighed.

"Fine. You want an ice pack or something?" He'd remembered El giving him one of those yesterday.

"Nah, I'll be fine." Peter let them watch the rest of the TV show in silence, wondering how long he'd been on the Home& Gardening network without realizing it. Those shows were addictive. Really, they were very similar to fishing shows; no one really wanted to watch them but they get sucked in anyway. As the end credits rolled, Peter finally asked the question that had been quietly gnawing a hole in his gut since he saw Neal on the ground.

"What exactly happened at the scene?"

"I didn't tell you yesterday?" Neal seemed confused.

"You weren't really in the state to." Peter explained.

"Huh. I thought I must've or you would've asked. I fell."

"Neal…"

"Well, I had some help. Don't remember which one it was, but somebody pushed me and I couldn't catch myself in time. Wiped out on a curb." Peter winced.

"Ouch."

"Well, you didn't think it felt good, did you?"

"I know it doesn't look very good. You may have problems charming every woman you meet for the next week or so." Neal shrugged.

"Nah, I'll tell them I got hurt in the line of duty. That always goes over well." Neal paused for a nervous moment. "How bad _does_ it look?" Peter's lips twitched in amusement.

"You haven't looked? Well…You'll probably be able to keep your nose. At least, most of it."

"Peter!" Peter laughed as panic rose in Neal's eyes.

"Relax. No permanent damage done. You'll look like death-warmed-over for a week or so, but you'll be fine." Neal nodded, deciding to ignore the death-warmed-over remark and being grateful nothing had been too banged up. A set of lawn-care commercials passed before Neal spoke.

"Remember, you promised not to look up anything I told you today." He reminded.

"I remember. I seem to recall something about no smoke-signals either." Neal nodded.

"That too, of course. All your smoke-signal making equipment will need to be confiscated immediately." Peter laughed before asking-

"What would I find if I did look up 'Peterson' and 'Garden Valley, Oregon'?" Peter wondered if Neal would tell him or not. As he drew a deep breath, Neal wondered the same thing.

He'd never told anyone about his life as Neal Peterson before. There was no need to start now and yet…and yet he wanted to tell Peter. He wanted to tell someone who'd understand, someone who'd know what it all meant. Most importantly: he wanted to tell someone he trusted. Moz knew bits and pieces, but when they'd met it had all been too fresh for Neal to go over. They just naturally avoided it after a while. He could tell Peter, though. He could tell Peter everything, finally getting it off his chest.

"You'd probably find an unsolved murder case."


	3. Chapter 3

"_You'd probably find an unsolved murder case."_

The words echoed in Peter's head. A million questions formed at once. Who? Had Neal seen it? Had he done it? Peter knew that one was ridiculous. Maybe it was an accident… Was that why he'd run? Finally, he settled on one to ask.

"Who?" Neal looked down at his lap. He was having second thoughts about this already. Maybe he shouldn't have told Peter. Would Peter have to report it? Probably. There was no statute of limitation on murder. Shit. He shouldn't have said it. "Neal. Who?" Peter's voice was slightly more forceful now.

"Are you gonna have to report this?" Peter sighed. He didn't know the answer.

"That depends on what you know, Neal. What do you know about it?" God, he hoped Neal didn't do it. He hoped Neal didn't know anything. He knew it couldn't be that easy, though. The guilty look on Neal's face was killing him. God, he didn't even look like that when Peter had accused him of all those crimes when he'd first caught him.

"I know who did it." He whispered. Peter'd never heard him speak so soft. Damn, this was going to be bad, the agent thought.

"Let's go back to the beginning here, Neal. Who was killed?" Neal closed his eyes. The bruises and the fact that he hadn't styled his hair and that he was wearing pajamas at nine in the morning when he was usually in those goofy suits all combined to make Neal look impossibly young. Sometimes, Peter wondered if Neal had lied about his age on his birth certificate.

"Robert Peterson."

"Alright…was he related to you?" Peter felt stupid even asking. What were the chances they lived in that small of a town and shared a last name without being related? Neal nodded, opening his eyes to gauge how angry Peter was. To his surprise, Peter looked more concerned than mad.

"He was my dad." Peter closed his eyes and sunk back against the couch. Poor Caffrey. That would be more than enough reason to run but Peter suspected there was more. The life of Neal Caffrey was turning out to be far different than he had anticipated. He wondered if that was why El had grown so fond of Neal so fast; she could always pick up on the invisible vulnerabilities in a person and she made it her job to nurture them. He loved that about her. Well, he loved everything about her. Opening his eyes, he turned his attention back to his partner, who was watching him anxiously.

"Neal…Who killed him?" Neal looked away and shook his head.

"No, no nevermind. I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"You gave that choice up the moment you told a federal agent you had information about an open case!" Peter snapped a little. He couldn't help it. Volunteering information wasn't something you could say you wanted to do and then stop. It didn't work that way. There was no Indian-giving with testimony. When Neal finally spoke his voice was quiet and dark.

"I didn't think I was telling a federal agent. I thought I was telling my friend." He rose slowly and went upstairs, his footfalls nearly silent. Peter sighed and covered his face with his hands. He screwed that up beyond description. El might consider making him sleep on the couch if she found out about this. She was always trying to get him to be more tactful. He had certainly failed at that.

Upstairs, Neal locked himself in the guest room, sitting on the edge of the bed. He had tried not to think about his dad's death, tried not to think of what he'd seen. That had worked for a while. But, eventually, he hadn't been able to stand it. That's when he'd left Garden Valley for good. It had been hell, knowing who killed his father, watching the whole thing and not telling. The problem with small towns is that it's hard to avoid people forever. One day after school, he'd gone to the grocery store for a gallon of milk and found himself in the same check-out lane as the man who'd put a bullet through his dad's chest. He'd managed to run about 20 yards from the store before he completely lost it.

Lying down across the bed, he closed his eyes as the memories washed over him…

_He'd been ten. He had long since learned lock-picking and had moved on to bigger, better things. He'd lifted a few things here and there. Nothing too expensive. Sometimes just a little bag of marbles or a pack of gum from right out under the clerk's nose, just to prove that he could. Most child-thieves were caught because they got to greedy and too bold. Neal knew better. One day, after a bit of Vodka, his dad had given him some lessons. He'd taught him how to pick-pocket too._

_ On a particularly nice day in May, just after school had gone out, Neal told his dad he was going to go down to the creek with some of the kids and fish a little. His dad had waved him away, nodding that it was ok, as he talked on the phone. The conversation sounded serious and curiosity got the better of Neal. He made as though he was leaving, even opening and closing the front door and then he crawled under the couch in the living room where he could hear his dad talking. He'd been watching a lot of spy movies lately. _

_ To his dismay, his dad came in and sat on the couch, tapping his foot as if he was waiting for someone. Neal remained still and quiet, determined to not get caught. Getting caught meant getting in trouble and getting in trouble meant that his dad's belt would be out of his belt loops before he could say 'sorry'. He wished his mom was home. Maybe she could distract him. But mom hadn't been home more than she had to be lately. _

_ Neal didn't have much time to think though. Soon, a knock came on the door and his dad all but jumped up to answer it. Neal listened as Sam Johnson, his dad's long-time friend, and his dad had a heated argument. Neal shifted slightly so he could see what was going on. The men stood only a few feet from the couch, facing each other. _

_Suddenly, Sam pulled something from his waist-band. Neal couldn't see what it was at first. Then he heard a loud shot. His dad crumpled to the ground. He clamped his hand over his mouth, fear telling him that making noise would be ill-advised. Sam leaned over his father's body and smiled. Neal would have nightmares about that smile. _

_ He turned to leave but stopped when Neal's dad let out a low moan. Turning, he fired two bullets into his chest before leaving. Neal was frozen in place. He was too scared to even cry. He didn't know what to do. After a while, he became aware of something. The floors in their house were uneven because of the way the old home settled. The blood that was pooling around Neal's dad was slowly making its way down the slant in the old floor towards the couch. _

_ Neal finally moved, running out of the house. He hadn't been sure where to go but he found himself at the creek where he was supposed to be all along. Sitting on its banks, he cried himself to sleep. He didn't wake up till later that night, when the police chief, Mr. Martin, found him._

_ "Hey, Neal." He began sadly. "Your mom's been worried about you. I think you need to go home." The man didn't have the heart to tell Neal about his father's death but it was just as well since he already knew. Neal felt guilty. He left his dad dead on the floor for his mom to find and then worried her by disappearing. _

Neal opened his eyes when he heard the door open. He glared at Peter, who stood in the door way, arms crossed.

"See, you don't like it when people do it to you." Peter muttered, remembering the lock picking incident from the day before. Neal only gave him a confused look. Peter had forgotten Neal didn't remember it. The older man drew a deep breath before speaking. "Look, Neal I'm…I'm sorry"

"No, I shouldn't of said that. I should've just told you." Peter looked shocked before quickly regaining face.

"Oh. No, you shouldn't of." He agreed awkwardly, wondering what exactly he was doing. "You want to tell me now?" Even though Neal's head was no longer clouded with drugs like yesterday, Peter still felt like he was taking advantage of him somehow. He didn't like the feeling. Neal nodded. His hands were shaking at Peter sat down next to him.

"To whom am I speaking?" Neal asked, half turning so he was facing his partner. "Is this Peter or agent Burke?" Peter smiled.

"Peter." Neal nodded.

"My dad's best friend, Sam Johnson. He killed him."

"Did you see it or is that a guess?" Neal shook his head.

"I saw it. Saw him shot him. Three times." Neal gulped. His head hurt again but he was afraid of what he would say or do if he took the painkillers.

"Jeez, Neal, why didn't you tell anyone?" Neal looked up at him.

"I was ten…" Peter nodded, feeling his heart sink in his chest. Ten? When he was ten, he broke his arm sledding down the hill in the backyard and missed playing pond hockey all winter. His parents used to take him down to the pond and skate around with him, making sure he didn't fall. He would have been devastated if anything had happened to them. He put an arm around the consultant.

"I'm sorry."

"Not your fault. It was a long time ago. I'm fine." Peter squeezed his arm before letting go.

"It doesn't matter how long ago it was, that's something any kid shouldn't have to go through." Neal shrugged.

"Well, it did." He didn't want to tell Peter how bad it had been after that. He'd had nightmares and flashbacks for months. It got better when his mom moved the two of them into a new house a few blocks away, but it didn't erase it from his mind. When he'd run into Johnson at the grocery store, all those memories came rushing back.

Peter watched Neal, the tired con not able to hide hints of emotion on his face. He wasn't used to seeing this side of Neal; the con was larger-than-life, always cheerful, always confident. Neal looked away, trying to hide behind his façade, which was eroding slowly under the pain.

"So, did you pick the lock or use a key? Because if you picked it, I'd be impressed."

"It's my house, Neal. What do you think?"

"I think you don't know where El put the keys." Peter gave a wry smile and shook his head. Neal was a little too good at reading him.

"You want to stay up here or come back downstairs? You know, it wouldn't kill you to take those painkillers." Neal sighed.

"I'll go downstairs. But I'm not taking those pills." Neal didn't want to say anything else he might regret. Peter nodded once, standing to leave the room. When he was in the doorway, Neal looked up.

"On the microwave." Peter stopped.

"What?"

"The key. El keeps it on the microwave." Peter's mouth fell open for a second before turning upward into a grin.

"How do you- no, you know what?" He held up his hands "I don't even want to know."

Neal grinned and followed Peter downstairs. The two made their way to the kitchen. Peter poured himself a glass of water and then one for Neal when the younger man indicated he also wanted one. Sitting down at the table across from Neal, he broke the silence.

"You sure you don't want those pills? You look like hell, Caffrey." Neal smiled.

"You're so sweet, Peter."

"That's a no, huh?" Neal nodded, taking a long drink of water before letting his aching head come to rest in his hands.

"Maybe we should go back to the doctor's and get you some painkillers that won't make you so…loopy."

"They don't exist. I even get weird with ibuprofen." Peter snorted.

"Hate to break it to you, kid, but you're always weird." Neal just sighed. He closed his eyes and wished he could just sleep for the next week or so. Everything hurt. His face had taken the brunt of the damage in the fall, but he could feel the scrapes on his hands and knees. The muscles across his back and in his neck were stiff from the jarring of his sudden landing.

If he was home alone, he'd take the pills. He'd probably take too many of them, though. Apparently, drugged-him couldn't count. He'd learned that some time ago. Chemical-free Neal was always finding out new things about his drug-influenced alter ego.

Peter watched Neal, thinking about maybe making lunch later and crushing Neal's pills up in it. He figured it would end up like a bad spy movie where he ended up with the drugged plate instead. His plans always backfired when Neal Caffrey was involved. Neal would probably switch the plates when he wasn't looking. There were definite downsides to working with one of the best con-men around.

"Neal." Neal's head snapped up at Peter's voice and the agent almost winced in sympathy at the look of pain that spread across his features. The more he got to know Neal, the more he realized he really couldn't deceive people who were close to him. It was almost an endearing quality. "Just take the meds."

"I can't. Who knows what could happen."

"I'll try to keep you from doing anything stupid, if that helps." Neal gave the slightest shake of the head.

"Nope. Not possible. I've never taken painkillers and not done something stupid. Ask Moz."

"I would if he wasn't screening my calls." Neal looked up quizzically and smirked.

"You called Moz? Why?" Peter shrugged.

"To see if he had any ways to get you to take the pills. Or, alternatively, if he would help me drug you."

"That's cute, Peter."

"Yeah, 'cause that's exactly what I was going for." Neal shrugged. "Just tell me this: how bad _does _it hurt? I'm tired of guessing." Neal looked up.

"It hurts."

"Elaborate on that thought."

"It _really_ hurts."

"Your English teacher must have loved you. Adjectives. Descriptions." Neal gave him a frustrated look.

"I am now able to empathize very well with the basketball from gym class. Happy?" Peter smiled a little.

"Neal"

"Peter." Neal was sounding a little frustrated. "I'm fine. I've been taking care of myself for- for a while now. This isn't as bad as the one I got while I was in Cyprus." Peter frowned.

"When were you in Cyprus?"

"That's not important. The point is, I took care of myself then, I can take care of myself now." Peter leaned across the table.

"I'm only going to say this one time, Neal, so you better listen: back then, whenever it was, you were alone. You didn't have anyone, right?" Neal nodded. "But now, you have me. And El, and Moz, and June. You don't have to take care of yourself because we are always going to want to help you. That's what friends do, Neal." Neal blinked a little, taken aback by the sudden speech. Usually, Peter wasn't a very talkative guy.

"Ok. Fine. I give up." He held up his hands as though surrendering. Peter smiled.

"Now. When did you go to Cyprus?" Neal laughed.

"I was probably about nineteen. I think."

"And when did you meet Moz?"

"When I was seventeen." Neal was tracing his finger around the edge of the glass.

"When did you run away from home?"

"Sixteen." The one year gap worried Peter.

"What happened between sixteen and seventeen,"

"Believe it or not, an entire year." Peter gave him an un-amused look. "I was not doing well on my own. Let's leave it at that."

"How'd you meet Moz?" Neal sighed.

"Am I being interrogated, agent Burke?" Peter furrowed his brow in frustration. The FBI agent in him had a hard time not asking questions like that. One after the other, with no conversation or anything offered up from himself. But really, what did you say to that? When Peter had been that age, he'd just gotten a car and would drive around with his friends.

"Tough habit to break." Neal nodded in acknowledgement.

"Moz took me in after he found me passed out in an ally in November. In Chicago. I was working as a waiter but I never had enough money for both food and rent. Can we be done with this interview now? I feel like I'm on trial again." Neal joked. He walked back into the living room, stretching out his sore body on the couch. Peter stayed in the kitchen, mulling over his thoughts.

First and foremost on his mind way figuring out a way to get Neal feeling better. Neal at anything less than his usual bothered him. He didn't like it. It wasn't normal. But these thoughts were continuously interrupted by the mental picture Neal had so skillfully painted in his mind. Neal in Chicago, unable to both feed himself and keep a roof over his head.

Peter remembered what it was like to go outside and get cold in Michigan. The difference was in Michigan, at the end of a long cold day, there was the promise of hot chocolate and roasting marshmallows in the fireplace. For Neal in Chicago, long, cold days had been followed by long, cold nights. Peter wondered when he'd gotten so protective over his friend. El must have been rubbing off on him.

AN: As you all know, I usually don't do author's notes. However, I just had to say how much I _love_ all the attention this story is getting. I'm glad everyone seems to be enjoying it! It's so much more fun to write something when you know people are reading it. Thank you all so much!


	4. Chapter 4

Peter let Neal sleep; the kid deserved it. While he sat at the table, he picked up his phone. He flipped through his contacts until he made it to the 'M's. Looking at the number listed simply as 'Moz', he wondered if he should call again. Haversham must be freaking out about the 'Fed' calling him so much suddenly. Smiling, Peter made his decision, hitting the call button. The phone rang twice before being sent to voicemail.

"Hey, Moz, it's 'The Suit'. I'm calling about Neal." He ended the call. There was no reason to provide more information; Moz would either have to call him back or figure it out by himself. Fifteen minutes later, the doorbell rang. Peter swore lightly, hoping the sound didn't wake his consultant. As he walked through the living room, he smiled when he saw Neal shift under the blanket but not wake. One crisis averted.

Opening the door, he wasn't as surprised as he should have been to see Moz. The shorter man looked especially frazzled, his clothing disheveled. He tried to push past Peter, but the agent held him back.

"What did you do with Neal, Suit?" Peter groaned. Of course Moz had overreacted. He should have seen this coming.

"Nothing, nothing. He's sleeping on the couch. Be quiet or you'll wake him." He let Moz in, watching as he walked silently through the living room, coming to stand within an arm's reach of the con. There were only a small number of people that could sneak up on Neal Caffrey like that. It made him smile to think he was one of the elite few. Peter motioned for Moz to follow him into the kitchen. Moz looked worried enough when they sat down that he took the glass of water he was offered and almost drank it. He gave Peter a disgusted look and pushed the glass away.

"No, thanks, Suit. What'd you do to Neal?" Peter rolled his eyes and sat down across from Moz. He folded his hands on the table where the anxious man could see them.

"It looks worse than it is, I think. He's got a broken nose and a concussion. But there's something else…" Moz frowned.

"Let me guess: he won't take his meds?" Peter smirked.

"I see this is a reoccurring problem."

"You could say that…How'd this happen? Isn't it your job to watch him?" The friendly tone that had come over their conversation fell away. Peter winced inwardly at the accusation. It _was _his job and he felt guilty that he hadn't been able to keep Neal safe. Even before El had said anything, he knew it could have ended up much worse.

"Someone pushed him and he bounced his face off the curb. It was the end of a long couple days, no one has been resting well. He probably would've reacted faster if he'd been more awake."

"So, you overwork him and leave him to get shoved around at crime scenes? Sounds like a great 'partnership' the two of you have going." Peter couldn't fault Moz for being angry; Neal was his friend too. If it had been Cruz or Jones who should have been watching Neal and something like this happened, he would have had their heads. As it were, he had Neal in his house for a full day, if not more. He felt that was a comparable punishment.

"It's not like I- No, never mind. The reason I called you was-"

"You wanted me to talk him into taking the meds." Moz finished, crossing his arms. Peter nodded. "Well, I'm not drugging him for your convenience, Suit. Just 'cause he's easier to watch that way doesn't mean-"

"No, no that's not it." Peter interrupted. "Moz, he's miserable. He wouldn't admit it for the world, but he is. His head is killing him and he won't take those damn pills. Why?" Moz let out a deep breath.

"Because he's scared he'll say something he'll regret."

"Like what?" Moz looked up pointedly.

"If I could read Neal Caffrey's mind, I'd be a millionaire. But, he's always been really guarded about his past, about his relationships. Who knows? I'll never forget the first time I drugged him, though…that was _quite_ the day."

"What happened? Was it in Cyprus?" Moz furrowed his brow.

"What? No, I was never in Cyprus. I don't know what you know about Chicago-"

"Just that you took Neal in. He was a waiter."

"Yeah. He sure was a scrawny kid. Thought he was gonna blow away or something." Peter chuckled.

"Well, it's good to know some things don't change." Moz nodded in agreement.

"Anyways, after I took him in…" Moz paused to collect his thoughts, to decide what to trust Peter with and what was better left out. "After I took him in, he got sick. Really sick. I should've taken him to a doctor, but I wasn't really…well, we were…"

"I know." Peter said, eyes encouraging Neal's friend to continue.

"Anyway, I couldn't. He was so sick. I honestly thought he was going to die and I would have to figure out what to do with the body. I gave him a couple painkillers, to knock him out."

"But it didn't work"

"Oh, it worked. Eventually. But before that, he was scared. He wouldn't stop talking. He just kept apologizing to me about something."

"What was it?" Peter leaned forward. Moz simply shrugged.

"No idea." Peter suspected Moz knew a little more than he was letting on.

"Sure. Well, any ideas on getting our boy to take his pills now?" Moz looked at him and finally smiled.

"He'll take them if he needs them. You better hope he doesn't take them, 'cause if he does that means it's really bad. I've never known him to _willingly_ take painkillers." A low moan from the other room filled the silence and both men turned towards the sound. They exchanged a glance before creeping into the living room. Neal was still on the sofa, though he'd rolled onto his back, an arm thrown over his eyes to block the light.

"Headache's getting worse." Peter whispered softly. Moz nodded and knelt down next to Neal.

"Hey, hey Neal." His voice was hardly audible, but Neal opened his eyes regardless.

"Moz?"

"None other. So, I heard you did a swan dive into a curb. How's that feel?"

"Feels exactly like that. Like I took a swan dive into a curb. Why're you here?"

"The Suit called me. He wants you to take your meds." Neal looked up at Peter, squinting slightly in the light.

"Oh, Peter, you worried about me. That's adorable." Moz smirked.

"Yeah, it's precious, now take your pills." Neal gave a subtle shake of the head.

"No, I don't need them. I'm fine."

"Neal, that's bull and we both know it. Nothing's going to happen if you take the damn pills." Peter smiled as he watched the conversation progress. Sometimes, Moz's methods could be misguided, but with regards to Neal, his intentions never were. He always looked out for him.

"Moz…I…I have a lot on my mind. I'd like to keep it there –and only there. I don't think those meds will help that." Moz rolled his eyes.

"Fine. You can try this act for a while. And Neal?" The thief looked up. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, man, but you look like hell." Neal gave a mock-cheery smile.

"Gee, thanks Mozzie. Love you too." Neal closed his eyes to go back to sleep, but Peter's voice distracted him.

"Why don't you eat something? Might make your head feel better." He suggested. Neal looked up at him, looking too drained to protest.

"Fine." He slid his legs off the couch and stood, almost falling backwards before his friends each grabbed an arm.

"Alright, we gotcha." Peter mumbled, letting Neal sink into his grip. Exchanging a look with Moz, Peter nodded before the two settled Neal onto the couch again. Neal closed his eyes for a long moment before turning those dulled blue eyes on his friends.

"I'm fine." Moz snorted.

"Sure you are." He retorted, just as Peter said

"Yeah, right." Neal groaned.

"I never thought I'd see the day you two were on the same side." Moz shrugged.

"Well, 'The Suit' has the right idea…for once." Peter rolled his eyes. At least that was better than nothing.

"Neal…" Peter began "Why don't you eat some lunch and then take your meds?" Neal gave Moz a pleading look but was met with a shake of the head.

"You should." Neal groaned. Leaning back into the couch, he pressed his hands over his eyes. He wasn't prepared to deal with both Moz and Peter at the same time.

"Fine. Just stop teaming up against me. It's weird." When Neal had been both fed and drugged, he fell asleep on the couch. Peter stayed in the kitchen, putting away the dishes from breakfast and tidying up after lunch. When he turned around, expecting to see Moz, he found himself alone. Puzzled, he made his way into the living room, smiling at the sight that met him.

Moz sat on one end of the couch, a pillow propped up against his leg. Sleeping on the pillow was Neal, looking at ease finally. Moz looked up and shrugged, not moving the hand that rested on the younger man's shoulder, heavy enough that its presence could be felt. Peter crossed the room to sit in the recliner, watching Neal carefully. All was silent until Neal let out a soft groan. Moz's hand moved from the con's shoulder to run over his hair, soothing him gently. Moz looked like he'd done this before.

"Does this happen often?" Peter asked softly, though Neal was sleeping soundly.

"Every once in a while." Moz looked down at Neal thoughtfully, running his hand over his hair again, a familiar action that smoothed the furrowed lines on his forehead. Peter had initially wondered at the relationship between the two con-men. He'd known that Moz had done a lot for Neal, protecting him and helping him. In the beginning, he'd wondered what Neal had contributed to the partnership. It was only after Neal became his partner that he knew; among his other talents, Neal was unflaggingly loyal. He would do anything for his friends. That alone was worth maintaining the partnership.

"How often is that?"

"Well, I don't exactly keep track. Though, I'm sure you've noticed Neal has this habit of getting himself into trouble." Peter nodded. He had noticed that. Neal murmured in his sleep and Moz frowned.

"What'd he say?" Peter leaned closer, trying to decipher the words.

"Something about…his dad." Moz looked confused. Peter groaned. Moz's curious look urged Peter to continue.

"We…talked about him earlier."

"How much did he tell you?"

"That he watched his dad get murdered." Peter's voice was dark, guilt welling up in his chest. Neal wouldn't have been thinking about that if he'd have just kept his mouth shut. Moz looked at the agent for a moment before turning his attention back to his friend, trying to keep him calm.

"He told you that?"

"Yeah…it took some time."

"He never told me." Moz was quiet now. Peter wasn't sure what to make of his tone. Was he upset that Neal hadn't told him? Or did he understand? "He said something that bad happened back home, that he couldn't go back. He had nightmares almost every night." Peter ran a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily. "Eventually, they went away. Never told me what happened. And I never asked." The last comment was made with a pointed look at the federal agent.

"I wonder what happened before he left." Peter mused quietly. Moz didn't respond, instead watching his friend with a careful eye. Peter didn't miss the way Moz rubbed small circles on Neal's back, trying to calm him down, or the way the artist's fingers gripped the pillow, just barely making contact with Moz's leg. Peter knew he'd come a long way in earning Neal's trust but the sight reminded him that there was still more to earn.

"I wouldn't ask, if I were you, Suit. If he wants to tell you, he'll tell you." The pair let Neal sleep, trying to find something on day-time TV worth watching. They were an unlikely duo, united by their concerns for the sleeping con artist. Finally, the con in question woke up again.

"No one's in handcuffs, are they?" Peter looked over quickly, though Moz appeared to have been aware of Neal growing more conscience over the last few minutes.

"Not yet. You didn't steal anything, did you?" He teased. Neal sat up slowly, running his hand over his face.

"Nope. Maybe I should steal some of your hideous ties and destroy them." Peter pretended to scowl at the con before he smiled.

"You feeling any better, Caffrey?" Neal smiled sheepishly.

"Yea…" He sounded out of it. Peter looked closer, noting the glassy look in his partner's eyes with some degree of amusement. Neal was stoned. "Did you get new walls, Peter?" He asked suddenly.

"What?"

"Walls. Did you get new ones?" He looked at Peter earnestly.

"No. Why're you asking?"

"They look…different. They're pretty. They glow." Moz snorted.

"Why don't you go to sleep?" He suggested to his long-time friend. "I think the walls will look normal when you wake up."

"But, I'm not tired."

"Just close your eyes and watch the pretty lights for a while." Peter covered his mouth to hide his smile. Seeing Neal like this made him wonder why it had taken so long to catch him. He was so much like a kid sometimes, almost as if he was living the childhood that had been cut short. Peter paused at the thought; maybe that _was _it. He looked at Neal again, watching as the con laid his head down again on Moz's leg. This time, under the influence of his pain killers, he grabbed blindly for his friend's hand. Moz looked over at Peter and rolled his eyes but didn't dare pull his hand away. Peter thought Neal was lucky to have a friend like Moz. He also thought how he and Moz were lucky to have a friend like Neal.

It was almost four in the afternoon when Neal woke up again. An hour or so earlier, Moz had gotten his hand out of Neal's. Now, the young man sat up, looking around the room.

"Why are you both looking at me like that? What did I do?" Neal ran a hand over his hair to smooth it back into place.

"You talked about my walls." Peter replied. Neal groaned and covered his face, sinking back into the couch.

"And you said they glowed." Moz continued. Neal shot him a dirty look.

"I think I liked it better when you two didn't get along." He grumbled. Looking at Peter he asked: "Can I go take a shower?" When the agent nodded, Neal rose and ascended the stairs slowly, trying to keep himself steady. Moz stood once Neal was out of sight.

"Well, as fun as it's been, I need to get away from the house of Mr. and Mrs. Suit. I have to wash the Bureaucracy off now." Peter nodded, chuckling as he walked Moz to the door.

"Thanks for getting him to take the meds." Moz nodded, lowering his voice when he spoke.

"You're welcome, but I did it for him. Just remember, no matter how much Neal likes you, you're still a Fed. I'm not going to trust you." Peter nodded.

"I didn't expect you to."

"But…" Moz looked side-to-side, as though checking to see if anyone was close by. "Neal trusts you. I hope he isn't wrong for doing it." Moz left before Peter could reply, which was just as well; he didn't know what he would say.

Sitting back in his chair, he watched the TV as he thought. He had never expected to earn Moz's trust. He was just glad that he helped him with Neal sometimes. The younger man took both of their combined efforts to keep on a desirable track. The fact that Moz and Peter could agree on a desirable path was testament to how far Neal could be blown off course at times. Of course, the con had been good lately. The agent thought back to what Moz had said, about Neal trusting him, and smiled. He'd worked hard for that trust. It had taken even longer for him to trust Neal, though. It had been a while before he viewed Neal as a friend first, instead of a criminal.

Upstairs, Neal stood in the hot spray of the shower, trying to clear of his mind. He should have known better than to take those painkillers, but Moz and Peter working together were particularly effective. He smirked when he thought about how funny it was; the straight-laced federal agent and the conman working together. Turning off the water and grabbing a towel, he sat on the edge of the tub for a while. He was tired. The pills were starting to wear off and he could feel the familiar throbbing return to his lip and nose. After a moment, he stood, dressing without looking in the mirror. He did not want to see his face. It would be easier to forget this whole ordeal that way.

Going downstairs, he sat cross-legged on the couch, closing his eyes as he leaned back against the cushions, letting his weary muscles relax. He's very nearly asleep when Peter speaks, voice jerking him awake.

"Feeling better?" Neal looked up at Peter and nodded. "Good, that's good. So…" Neal couldn't help but smile. Peter clearly had a question for him but he was trying to not sound like he was interrogating him this time. Neal appreciated the effort.

"So, what?"

"I was just wondering…" Peter leaned forward in his seat, deciding to disregard some of Moz's advice. "What happened that made you leave home for good?" Neal swallowed hard. Of all the questions he'd expected, this had not been on the list. "I mean, your dad had been dead for six years at that point." Peter winced at his own statement. Did he really sound that insensitive? Oh, boy. "I mean-"

"I know what you mean." Neal interjected quickly, sparing Peter the pain of trying to rephrase his thoughts. "I left because…because I couldn't take it anymore."

"Couldn't take what?" Peter's voice was softer this time, a look of concern falling over his face.

"Sam. I told him I knew what he did, told him I'd seen it." Neal's voice dropped to a haunted whisper. "He wanted me dead. He tried to off me a few times, I think. I was scared. Then, one night when I was driving home from something, he ran me off the road. I broke a couple ribs, sprained my wrist. That night I went home, grabbed all my money and a bag and left."

"Just like that? Without looking back?" Neal nodded.

"Just like that." He confirmed, hanging his head until his chin rested on his chest.

"What about your mom? She must have been worried." Neal shrugged, suddenly looking like a lost child. The sight made Peter's chest tighten uncomfortably.

"She'd found a new husband by then. She was…happy. Really, really happy."

"Did you leave a note or something?" Neal shook his head. "Why not?" Again, the conman shrugged.

"I just didn't. I thought she'd be happier without me. I look a lot like my dad." He offered as an explanation. Peter sighed.

"That doesn't mean she wouldn't miss you. Did you ever try to find her again?" Now, Neal looked completely vulnerable, like a vase held together with school glue. Any second now, Peter feared that the fractures would break open and the consultant would fall apart.

"I couldn't. She moved a few times, I think. No one knew where she was. I cou-couldn't find her." Peter would have made a joke about disappearing running in the family, but the way Neal stuttered was telling; he'd never heard Neal falter in his speech before. Suddenly, Peter spoke before thinking.

"Let me help you find her." Neal's head jerked up to look at him, trying to read his face.

"You'd do that?" Peter smiled

"Of course I would. Wouldn't you?" He knew Neal would go to the ends of the world and back, if he asked him to. Peter thought it was time to return the favor. After all, he'd found Neal Caffrey. Anyone else should be a piece of cake. Neal nodded, looking away for a moment to compose himself before meeting his partner's eyes again.

"What if she doesn't…?" He couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't voice his fears. What if she didn't _want _to hear from him again? What if she didn't want him in her new life? What if she didn't love him anymore? Peter knew what Neal was thinking, sensing the unsaid concerns.

"She will. Mothers always will." Neal nodded and looked away, running his hand across his face. Peter sighed. Neal just looked so damn young sometimes.

Finally, Neal met Peter's gaze again, blue eyes shining. Peter smiled, knowing that, despite all the bravado, the magic tricks, the misdirection, Neal Caffrey had a sensitive soul, an artist's soul. He was a study of contradictions; deceptive yet loyal, naïve yet brilliant. Sensitive yet resilient.

"Thanks Peter. I hope you're up for the challenge, though. My mother is not an easy lady to find. How do you think I got to be so good? My dad couldn't even hide Christmas presents." A teasing smile tugged at his lips and Peter laughed despite himself, wondering what, exactly, he had gotten himself into.


	5. Chapter 5

Neal slouched even lower on the couch, growing more and more disinterested with the baseball game Peter was so enthralled with. Hanging loosely in one hand was a sketch book and in the other, a pencil. Glancing down at the half-finished drawing of Satchmo sleeping on the rug, he sighed. He didn't have the energy to keep sketching but he didn't want to stop either. Losing the fight with his eyelids, he gave up, letting them fall closed and slipping into dream…

_Neal had spent rainy days the same way his entire childhood. He'd sit with his mom in the kitchen and watch her sketch. When he was little, he'd play on the floor, sometimes falling asleep and becoming his mother's subject. Later on, she'd given him colored pencils and his own sketch book. He'd filled it with drawings. First, they had started with scribbled, uncertain drawings. By the last view pages, though, the sketches began to improve. _

_ In the months before Robert had been killed, rainy day traditions moved from the kitchen to the living room, sitting on the couch drawing. Sometimes, his mom would make popcorn and after they finished their drawings they would cuddle on the couch and watch movies. _

_ After his dad died, rainy days had been different. The wooden floor in the living room had been stained with blood. Nothing had been able to remove the stain. The rug that had been in the den was moved to cover it, creating two rooms that reminded young Neal of the sudden loss. Eventually, they moved to a new house, a smaller house, a few blocks away from the old house. Even with the change of scenery, it took almost a year for the nightmares and flashbacks to go away. _

_ Neal's mom had started seeing someone new, a fellow teacher at the school she worked at. He was a nice man. He took Neal and his mom on picnics at the beach and he played in the surf with Neal. He didn't drink vodka shots in the middle of the day, he didn't teach Neal to break into buildings and he didn't pull his belt out of his belt loops when Neal did something wrong. He taught history at the high school and he often imparted this knowledge on the youngster. Neal ate it up, absorbing every word._

_ Neal's mother also taught him something besides drawing; she taught him how to charm. She was able to talk herself out of –or into –any situation, be it traffic tickets or a new class she wanted to teach. While teaching, she charmed her students into learning, luring them into the subject without them even knowing it. Outside of work, she used her skills for less noble pursuits. Whenever she and Neal went out, it wasn't unusual for them to get a free dessert or two or be seated quickly at busy restaurants. _

_ The thing Neal could picture most clearly about his mother was her eyes. They were the same as his own bright blues. Coupled with her dazzling smile and the way she twirled a curl around her finger, she usually got what she was working towards. Once, when he'd been very young, Neal had asked if what she was doing was wrong, if it was cheating to be so smooth talking and charming. She'd smiled at him and knelt down to be eye-level with her son, brushing a lock of hair out of his face._

_ "Honey," she said, smiling "It's not cheating or bad. You just have to use everything that's available for you to use. That's all." _

_ "What do I have, Mama?" He'd asked. She smiled and picked him up._

_ "You have so many things, sweetie. You have this" She pointed to his head. "And you have this" She pointed to his heart. "And these don't hurt either." He giggled when she poked each of his dimples. _

_ Years later, Neal Peterson – and later, Neal Caffrey – still remembered that moment. It was a defining moment, leading him realize that there was more than saying 'please' and 'thank you' in social interactions. There was no reason not to tell people exactly what they wanted to hear, no reason to stop them from making assumptions they wanted to make…_

"Yes! There we go! Outta the park!" Neal opened his eyes and looked at Peter groggily, his head throbbing.

"I forgot I fell asleep at a ballpark." He smiled, straightening himself up a little. Peter smiled sheepishly, feeling foolish for exclaiming like that.

"Sorry. Didn't realize you were asleep."

"It's fine. I've been having strange dreams lately. Must be this headache."

"You mean concussion. You're not going back to work for a few days, at least until you're feeling better. I can't take you out in the field like this." He gestured vaguely at Neal.

"Do you mean, in your pajamas? Because that _would_ raise a few eyebrows." Peter rolled his eyes. Neal chuckled at his own joke before introducing a more serious subject.

"Peter, about finding my mom…"

"Don't worry about it Neal. It'll be a piece of cake."

"Wouldn't it be easier if you knew her name though?" Neal smirked when Peter swallowed back his embarrassment.

"I could find her without it, but if you want to tell me, go ahead."

"Her name is Charlotte Madison. Her friends' call her Charley…or at least, they did. She's married to Paul Madison. Both of them were teachers. He teaches history and she teaches art."

"Alright. We'll find her, Neal." Neal nodded. He couldn't shake the feeling of nervousness associated with that statement, though. What would she think of him? How would she feel about her son being one of the best thieves in modern times? That's not something most mothers would be proud of. Peter was more perceptive than Neal gave him credit for. "But you're not worried about us finding her, are you? You're worried about what she'll think." Neal's face flushed. Was he really that easy to read? He was getting soft.

"No, I'm not." Peter sighed.

"You want to hear a story, Neal?"

"No, but I have this sinking feeling that was rhetorical." Peter smiled at him this time.

"Good job. When I was a kid, my parents wanted me to be a journalist. That's all they ever talked about. But when I told them that that wasn't what I wanted to do, that I wanted to be a cop, they were still proud of me. More importantly, they still loved me. She's not going to disown you, Neal. She's your mom. She loves you." Neal looked down at his hands.

"At least your job was still a respectable job. No one is ever proud that their kid is a great forger, one of the best conmen. That's not something you put on a bumper sticker and slap on the back of the family car." Peter chuckled despite himself.

"She'll understand, Neal. She's your mom. That's what they do." Peter had never imagined he would ever see Neal so insecure about something. Deciding a change of subject would do them both good, he continued speaking. "Is that a picture of Satch? Let me see." Neal handed over the sketchbook, watching as Peter scrutinized his work. "You know, if you finish this, El would love it. She might even hang it on the fridge." Peter was partially joking, but Neal's eyes seemed to light up. Taking the sketchbook back, he worked to finish the drawing. When the consultant finished, he gently tossed the book onto the agents lap.

"Does that look fridge-worthy?" He joked. Peter laughed, studying the picture.

"Yeah, I guess it does. Where'd you sign it? Don't you always sign this stuff?" Neal smirked and leaned back in his seat, relishing the way the soft cushions held his aching body.

"Well, I have to keep my skills sharp and so do you. Let me know when you find it." Peter scowled and grabbed the small magnifier off the coffee table, searching the drawing for the telltale 'NC' that was on most of Neal's works. After ten minutes, he finally found the initials, hidden in the fur around one paw.

"Found it. Good job…for a sketch." Neal laughed.

"Well, good job finding it…for a Fed." They shared a laugh before going back into companionable silence for a few minutes. Peter watched the game, sneaking the occasional glance over at his partner. Neal looked tense, as if the painkillers had lost all effect. His head was bowed, shoulders tensed as he tapped his pencil against the sketchbook. Finally, he turned to a clean page and began to draw. Peter smiled at the sight. At least now he could watch his game in peace.

When the game was over, Peter moved from chair to couch, looking over Neal's shoulder as he drew. What he saw surprised him. On the paper, Neal had sketched a woman. She was beautiful, really. Her hair fell past her shoulders in auburn ringlets, her face sprayed with freckles. Her smile was bright and not unlike that of a certain thief he knew. He could see the crow's feet around her eyes and the laugh lines on her face, but she didn't look old. Peter didn't know how much like his father Neal looked, but he suspected the conman might have made that up. His mother and he shared the same smile and, judging by the blue pencil Neal was using, the same eyes.

"She's beautiful." Peter whispered. Neal looked up sharply, as though he hadn't noticed Peter so close until just then.

"She was. Is, I guess."

"You have the same eyes." Neal nodded. "And the same smile." Neal smiled a little. He'd always loved his mother's smile. There was another similarity that Peter couldn't put his finger on. Something that wasn't drawn outright, but still managed to make its way into the sketch. He looked from Neal to the sketch again, wondering what it was. It wasn't something physical, but something in those eyes made him think about it. He just didn't know what it was… Neal's voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

"I thought... it might be useful to know what she looked like." Peter nodded. "Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"When are you going to look for her?"

"Well, if we don't catch another case, tomorrow." Neal turned to face Peter.

"I want to be there when you do." Peter sighed.

"No. You need to rest. You're concussed."

"I won't be doing anything. If you catch a case, I'll go home. But I want to be there."

"Why?" Peter gave an exasperated sigh.

"Just want to see how long it takes you to find her. It took you three years to find me." Peter rolled his eyes.

"If you come in, everyone's going to see that nice bruise on your face." Neal's hand gently touched his face, feeling the swelling. Still, he knew Peter was trying to play to his vanity.

"It'll be fine. I'll just tell them you hit me." Peter laughed. It wouldn't hurt to be able to keep an eye on Neal. At least he could keep him from doing something stupid.

"Alright. As long as we don't catch a case, you can go. Maybe I'll put you to work on some cold cases too." Neal smiled. He would never tell Peter, but he actually didn't mind cold cases. All he had to do was look over all the evidence collected. It wasn't like they had to go running around the city for it. Cold cases were great on those cold, rainy New York days. And they could be enjoyed in a warm room, with hot coffee. There was nothing wrong with that.

"Sounds like a deal." Neal leaned back into the couch, feeling himself relax. He wanted to sleep, but he didn't want to dream about his mother again. He missed her too much for that. Her absence in his life had been an ever-present ache. When he was running a con or running from the police, he didn't notice it. But now that he'd been still for years, it was growing. There were no reasons not to try to find her again. Peter's hand on his shoulder snapped him back to reality.

"You ok, Neal?" Neal looked up, feeling his chest tighten at the worry in Peter's eyes. Did he look that bad? Was that why Peter was so worried?

"I'm fine." He mumbled. He was so sore and acting like he was fine was taking its toll. But if he told Peter how he really felt, he'd make him take those damn pills and might not let him go to the office tomorrow. He couldn't let that happen. He tried to remind himself of cons he'd run in worse shape; if he'd done it then, he could do it now.

"Are you sure?" Peter was getting too good at reading him, though. "Neal, you ok?" Peter sighed. Neal had been fine a minute ago, but now he looked miserable. He wished Neal would just be honest with him. They'd been partners for years now. It wouldn't hurt to keep things clear between the two of them. "Neal?" He asked again, shaking the consultant's shoulder. Neal's eyes opened slowly.

"Peter, I'm fine. I think I'm going to go take a nap." He stood slowly, swaying dangerously on his feet. The older man rose also, grabbing Neal's arm and steadying him.

"Neal. Just level with me."

"I'm fine. Just tired." He tried to pull away from the agent's grasp, but he couldn't.

"Neal! Don't you trust me?" Peter was sorry he'd said it before the words had even left his lips. Trust was always a hot-button issue when it came to him and Neal. Neal always thought Peter didn't trust him as much as he trusted Peter. And, Peter regretted, Neal was right. He couldn't bring himself to trust the consultant completely. Neal hated when Peter called his trust into question. The look on Neal's face told him that he'd stepped over some invisible line into territory they had yet to work out. Neal tried to pull away again but Peter didn't let go. "Neal…I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

"Then what did you mean?" Neal had stopped struggling, standing now in front of Peter, head hung.

"I just wish you'd tell me what's going on in that head of yours." He gently tapped the side of Neal's head with his fingers, getting the con to look up. For an instant Neal's eyes were completely unmasked before he closed them. Peter bit his lip. Neal was hurting and there was nothing he could do about it. He hated feeling so useless.

"I'm just tired." Neal murmured, his voice nothing more than a whisper. He must be getting worse at lying. Peter had never been able to read him so well before. The thought that his skills were slipping worried him.

"Neal…" Peter still sounded worried. "Just stop acting for me." Neal leaned forwards, Peter's hands on his shoulders stopping him. "C'mon, Neal."

"I'm alright." Neal leaned forwards more, Peter letting the conman's head coming to rest on his shoulder.

"Neal, just tell me the truth."

"My head hurts." He whispered. "I don't want to take the painkillers, but everything hurts. If I tell you everything, you won't let me go tomorrow."

"We'll see about that tomorrow." He rubbed Neal's back, wondering if he should be doing something else.

"Your turn."

"What?" Peter blinked in confusion.

"I told you the truth. Now it's your turn." Peter smiled. Same ol' Neal.

"Alright. Fine. You're worrying me. And you know I'm no good at taking care of people." Neal chuckled lightly, Peter feeling the vibrations in his hand more than really hearing the sound. They stood like that for a moment, Neal's head heavy on Peter's shoulder, like he couldn't hold it up himself. "Let's get you to bed." He led the consultant upstairs, taking them slowly. The last thing he needed was to have to explain to El that he let her favorite conman fall down the stairs.

Finally getting Neal situated on the bed, he sat on the edge, not sure if he should leave him alone. Something seemed off. Neal was quiet for a moment but didn't let Peter's presence go unrecognized.

"I'm obviously not going to run off."

"Obviously?" Peter asked.

"I think we both know I wouldn't be getting very far." Neal admitted carefully. Peter smiled at the admission.

"But I'm sure Moz would bust you out if you asked." Neal grinned.

"Yeah. Moz is good for that."

"So…You met Moz in Chicago?" Neal groaned.

"Are you going to keep asking stuff like this? You couldn't figure it out on your own, could you?" Neal sat up a little more against the pillows. Now that he was lying down, covered with a blanket, he felt a little better. Better enough to annoy Peter, anyway.

"To be fair, it's hard to find out things about Neal Peterson when you're looking for Neal Caffrey." Neal shrugged.

"That was kinda the point."

"What's it going to hurt if you tell me now? I'm sure you're dying to point out all the ways you evaded me." Peter was playing to Neal's vanities again and this time it was working. He'd signed his works. He couldn't sign the years he'd had the best in the FBI stumped.

"I was a waiter in Chicago when I met Moz. I would have probably died in that alley if he hadn't found me. Would of saved the Bureau a bit of trouble though." He chuckled. Peter moved, sitting on the other side of the bed, leaning against the headboard. He had a feeling this would be a long story.

"Yeah, but I would've had to work boring cases all those years." Neal smiled. Peter didn't think he was boring. Not that he'd ever doubt that, but it was nice to hear.

"Anyway, eventually, we left Chicago. Spent the next winter in…Florida, I think."

"What'd you do in Florida?" Neal shrugged.

"Passing counterfeit tens."

"Tens?"

"Yeah. Who looks at a ten?" Clearly, not the right people because Peter had never been aware of Neal being connected to counterfeiting that early on.

"Did you draw it?" Neal smiled.

"Of course I did. It was a work of art, really. I think I might still have one somewhere." Peter pretended he hadn't heard that. It seemed like an odd twist on store-owners displaying the first dollar they earned. He wondered if other counterfeiters kept the first bill they made.

"More about Chicago. What did you do there?"

"Besides almost die? That's about it. I re-injured my wrist and couldn't draw. I could hardly wait tables. Moz didn't let me in on whatever he was working on. I got pretty sick for a while but after that I was fine. The first thing I did ever forged was my birth certificate, which you have on-file somewhere. The next was a driver's license. Moz helped with both. That's…about it, really." Neal yawned, covering his mouth as he did.

"Why don't you get some sleep? I'll wake you up later and see if you want dinner." Neal nodded sleepily.

"I will." Peter grinned as he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He wasn't sure about letting Neal come to work tomorrow, but that would have to wait. No telling how he'd be feeling in the morning.


	6. Chapter 6

"Hey, hey. Wake up." Peter shook Neal's shoulder, grinning when the conman tried to bat his hands away. "You want dinner?" Neal's eyes opened slowly, squinting in the light.

"What time is it?" He mumbled, sitting up slowly.

"It's about 8." Neal nodded. "I was thinking of ordering pizza. You want?" Neal nodded again, eyes brightening at the prospect of pizza.

"I want." Neal slid out of bed, standing too quickly. As the world grew dark, he blindly reached for something to hold onto. Peter grabbed Neal's arm, keeping him balanced.

"Alright, you're alright." He sat Neal back down on the bed, frowning. "Maybe we should take you to see a doctor." Neal groaned at the thought.

"No…I'm fine. I just stood up too fast. That's all. And I haven't eaten since you and Moz practically force-fed me lunch." He joked. The furrow on Peter's brow deepened but he relented.

"Fine. You better not do that at the office tomorrow, got it?" Neal smiled. Did that mean he was definitely going tomorrow?

"Got it. Now pizza or I'll tell El you forgot to feed me." Peter rolled his eyes, shaking his head at the thought. He could imagine that conversation. Neal followed Peter downstairs, easing himself onto the couch as Peter called to place their order. Hanging up the phone, he looked over at Neal, smiling to see how relaxed the consultant was around him now. It hadn't always been so.

Initially, neither of them were completely at ease with the other. It was the nature of their relationship; thieves and lawmen typically didn't keep company with one another. Eventually, they had grown closer, going from consultant and agent to friends, partners.

Sitting down next to Neal, Peter let his hand come to rest on the younger man's shoulder. Neal didn't even open his eyes at the touch.

"You hangin' in there?" A smile.

"Yeah. I'm ok."

"Really ok or trying-to-get-me-off-your-back ok?" Peter grinned when Neal chuckled at that.

"Maybe a bit of both." Neal admitted slowly, careful to keep whatever pain he felt out of his voice. Even so, Peter still knew. When it came to Neal, he always knew. The older man sighed, ruffling Neal's hair.

"You'll be ok." Neal opened his eyes.

"I was really expecting you to say 'cowboy up'."

"Well, you had a helluva day yesterday, Neal. Concussions aren't anything to joke about." The underlying message, of course, being: You scared me and I'm not about to admit it. Neal nodded thoughtfully, letting himself drift off to sleep until the food arrived.

Neal ate less dinner than Peter thought he would. He watched him worriedly until Neal pulled up the lid on the box of pizza, creating a wall between them. They shared a laugh and for a moment everything was normal. Then, Neal asked where his pain killers were, and Peter worried even more, Moz's words coming back to haunt him. Handing the pills over, he watched him swallow them before following him upstairs.

"You don't have to follow me all the time." The con grumbled.

"If I don't, I'll have to explain to El why you fell down the stairs and that is _not_ a conversation I want to have." Neal shrugged, pulling the covers up around him until he was cocooned.

"Ok. Just go 'way before I say something stupid." He thought for a moment before tacking on "Or incriminating."

"If that's the case, maybe I should stay and take notes." He said, even as he was leaving the room. He couldn't blame Neal for wanting to keep some things hidden. From what he'd learned in the past day, Neal's childhood hadn't been a walk in the park.

Peter contemplated what he'd been told that day, piecing together what he knew of Neal Peterson with what he knew of Neal Caffrey. There were still gaps in his knowledge, though they were nothing like they were before. He was starting to learn that some of Neal's quirks and traits could be explained by his childhood. That smile and those eyes were from his mother, and probably his love of art. He had said she was an art teacher. His dad taught him to pick locks when he was just a small child and then, not too much later, taught him to fear guns. Peter shuddered at the thought. Poor Neal.

When El came home, he tried not to tell, but he was no good at lying, not with her. She covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes watering and, for one terrifying moment, Peter thought she might start crying. Thankfully, she didn't. Wrapping herself in Peter's arms, she snuggled close.

"You're not letting him go into work tomorrow, are you?" She laced her fingers through his.

"Well…"

"Peter! He needs to rest!"

"I told him if we didn't catch a case, he could. He wants to be there in case I find something on his mom." El nodded.

"Alright. Just don't overwork him. And if you _do _catch a case, bring him back here. I'll watch him."

"El, he's a grown man, he doesn't need to be baby-sat." He knew protesting wouldn't matter and he thought it was a pretty good idea, but he still had to say it.

"I'm not 'baby-sitting'. Just taking care of. He doesn't need to take care of himself, not when I'm here." Peter kissed her forehead, smiling at her.

"I love you, El." She returned the smile, squeezing his hand.

"I love you too. Now, take me to bed, it's been a long day." She leaned her head back dramatically, laughing when Peter scooped her up in his arms, carrying her to the staircase. "I think I better walk from here." She giggled, leading Peter up the stairs by his hand.

As they entered the bedroom, the merriment stopped. A dark shape lay curled up in the middle of the bed. Peter groaned as El walked closer.

"Neal?" The sleepy conman looked up, eyelids heavy.

"Hiya, 'lizabeth. You're pretty." She smiled, sitting down next to him, rubbing his back with her hand. Peter rolled his eyes, standing in front of them, arms crossed.

"Why, thank you." She winked at Peter. "Whatcha doing, Neal?"

"I dunno." He wormed his way closer to her, smiling when she ran her fingers through his hair.

"Did you have bad dreams?" Neal nodded at the question. "What were they about?" El asked soothingly, her voice comforting the young man.

"Peter found my mom and she didn't want to see me" He whispered. El frowned.

"But that would never happen, Neal. Mom's always love their kids. Always."

"What about ones like me?" Neal's voice was slurring, on the edge of sleep. El stroked his hair away from his face and leaned down, planting a maternal kiss on his forehead.

"Especially ones like you." She whispered. Peter cleared his throat.

"I think it's time we put Neal back to bed." El nodded. "C'mon Neal, get up." Peter tugged on Neal's arm, indicating he should move. The consultant stood, almost falling into Peter's arms.

"I can't walk." Neal murmured, his eyes closing as Peter scooped him up in his arms. "You're strong, Peter. Do you work out?" El covered her mouth, hiding a giggle.

Peter laid Neal down on the bed, pulling the covers over him roughly.

"Are you mad?" Neal asked, looking concerned. Any anger Peter had instantly melted away. Damn Caffrey.

"No. Just…stay in _your_ bed." Neal smiled sleepily.

"I have my own bed. That's sweet, Pete." Then he giggled. "That rhymed." Peter considered handcuffing Neal to the bed, but he'd probably just slip out anyway. He settled for a stern look and one word-

"Stay."

"Not a dog, Peter." Neal rolled onto his side, slipping into an easy sleep.

Joining El back in their bedroom, he avoided her amused look.

"He's so cute." El finally said, laying her head on her husband's chest. Peter snorted.

"Oh yeah. Just adorable." She looked up and smiled, kissing him softly.

"But you're cuter." This time Peter smiled, wrapping his arms around her protectively.

In the morning, Peter waited as long as possible before he had to go get Neal. He'd been hoping that he'd wake up on his own and come downstairs for breakfast with El and he, but the consultant never did. Knocking tentatively on the door to the guest room, he was surprised when he heard Neal on the other side.

"I'm up." Peter opened the door, revealing Neal, seated on the edge of the bed, head in hand, looking tired.

"Thought you slept well last night." He sat next to Neal.

"I slept great until about three."

"What did you do after that?" Instead of answering directly, Neal pointed at his sketchbook, sitting discarded on the floor. Picking it up, Peter flipped through the old, familiar drawings until he found new ones. "Hey, that's me." He pointed at the picture, looking to Neal for an explanation.

"Keep looking." He was strangely calm, too still for Peter's liking. Neal was a constant whirl of motion, of intellect, of smoke and mirrors. Peter turned the page.

"And this is El. It's…beautiful." He conceded, his fingers touching the picture gently.

"She's beautiful" Neal's voice was flat. Peter turned another page.

"And this is June." He flipped again. "And this is Jones." Another page. "And Cruz." Another. "And this is Hughes-Neal, did you draw all night?" Neal sighed, dropping his head into his hands.

"I told you, I only slept until three."

"Didn't you try to go back to sleep?" Neal turned his head, looking at Peter with dull eyes.

"I couldn't." Peter put the sketchbook down next to him, scooting closer to Neal.

"Why not?" Neal leaned against Peter's shoulder, reminding the agent sharply of the previous night, when Neal had worried him so much. Neal didn't respond. "Neal. Why couldn't you go back to sleep?"

"If I say it, you won't let me go today." His voice was shaky. Peter wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

"Neal, we don't have to look for her today. We can wait 'til you're better-"

"No, Peter, no! I want to find her. I can't-I can't wait anymore." Neal's eyes were wild with fear, fear of losing what he didn't even have yet. Peter pulled Neal closer, holding him tight.

"Ok. Ok, we'll find her today. Just calm down." Neal nodded. "You wanna get going? We still need to get you a change of clothes." Neal nodded, sagging against Peter for another moment before slowly standing.

"Right. Can't go to work in your pajamas."

Peter waited at Neal's kitchen table, flipping through the paper as he waited for the conman. Sighing, he checked his watch, eyes rolling.

"C'mon, Caffrey! No one's going to be looking at your clothes with that big bruise on your face."

"I know." He was much closer than Peter expected, startling the agent slightly. Looking up, he was surprised to see Neal in blue jeans. He'd almost forgotten the consultant even owned any. On top, he wore a simple button down, blue enough to bring out his eyes, soft enough that it looked well worn. Even when he dressed down, Neal Caffrey looked sharper than most. This image was marred by the violent bruising on his face. Peter knew that it was only going to look worse, as the bruise went from purple to blue to a sickly yellow color.

"Ready to go?" Neal nodded, following Peter to the car and remaining unnervingly quiet through the car ride to the office. He kept his head down as they made their way through the bullpen to Peter's office.

"Everyone's staring at me." He mumbled, easing himself into the chair across from Peter's desk. "Privacy wasn't a top priority for the FBI, huh? It's like prison. Someone always watching."

"In prison, you don't get as comfy of chairs." Peter countered, sitting down at the computer, beginning his search for Charlotte Madison. After fifteen minutes of swearing to himself, he found her.

"Neal." The consultant looked up instantly, his eyes hopeful. He didn't dare ask, not wanting to be disappointed. "I found her. Neal she's…" Peter read the address again. "She's in Newark, New Jersey. In University Heights." Neal didn't speak. Peter looked up at him, seeing his partner looking stunned.

Neal's mind was racing. She was so close. She'd been so close for years. How could he have not known? The ache to see her that had grown over the years sharpened.

"I have to go see her." He declared, standing too quickly and sitting down heavily. Peter furrowed his brow.

"Are you sure you want to see her like _this?_" He gestured vaguely at Neal's face. Neal looked at him, his emotions unmasked. He looked desperate. More so than when he'd been looking for Kate.

"Peter, please. I _need _to see her. I…I never told her goodbye. I should've told her. But now…She's so close. Peter…" He fell silent, continuing his plea wordlessly with his eyes. Peter sighed. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he couldn't deny Neal when he was like this. He pulled his phone out, calling Jones.

"Hey, Caffrey and I are going to go talk to a person of interest in an old case….down in University Heights, in Newark….If anything comes in, I'm sure you can handle it…Alright…Thanks." Peter closed the phone, making his way towards the door before turning to look at Neal. "Well, are you coming or not?" Neal followed Peter out the door, ignoring the stares he earned as he exited the office.

The car-trip was unbearable. Neal fidgeted the entire way, nearly driving Peter mad. When he finally pulled up in front of an old Brownstone, he pointed at the door.

"This is it. Here we are." Neal gulped, looking pale, wringing his hands in anxiety. "Well, aren't you going to go knock on the door?" Neal looked over.

"Aren't you coming with me?" The nervous energy was obvious in his voice, sounding high strung.

"I'll be right behind you." Nodding, Neal exited the car, carefully making his way to the door. His hands were sweating. He rubbed them on his jeans but it didn't seem to make matters any better. He wondered what she would think of him, of what he'd done in the past, of what he was doing now. What would she think when she saw his face? He still hadn't looked but judging by the stares he got today, he figured he looked hideous. Finally, he raised a trembling hand, pressing the doorbell. Peter squeezed his shoulder in reassurance before dropping his hand back to his side.

After the longest moment of Neal's life, the door opened. Before she could speak, Neal did, his words slipping out.

"Mom. It's-it's me." She covered her mouth for a second, blue eyes widening before she wrapped her arms around him tightly, engulfing him in the smell of paints and flowers and something baking. He closed his eyes, flushing as they began to water.

"Oh! Neal, my baby Neal! I've missed you so much!" She laughed and cried, pulling him into the house and gesturing for Peter to follow. "It's been so long; oh you don't know how much I've missed you! Let me look at you." She took a step back, studying him with an artist's eye. She reached out a soft hand to touch his face. "What happened, dear?" The way she said it, they both knew it wasn't just about the bruises. It was about so many other hurts, the worse kind of hurts; the ones on the heart.

"I-It's a long story, mom." She cupped his cheek in her hand and he leaned into the touch.

"I have time, baby. I always have time for you." She led the two of them to a cozy living room, with overstuffed couches and cheery colors and lots of pillows. Peter sat awkwardly in a chair while mother and son sat on the couch, watching one another closely. Neal slowly began to explain what had happened after he left but soon the words came tumbling out, relating years of time in a matter of minutes. She held his hand, rubbing the back of it soothingly.

"I work with the FBI now, as a consultant, but" He tugged up the leg of his pants "they keep me on a short leash." She nodded. She understood. "This is Agent Peter Burke. He's my partner. We work together." Peter held up a hand in a short wave and smiled. Charlotte returned the smile.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, agent Burke." She shook his hand.

"It's great to meet you too, Mrs. Madison." She laughed, a rich laugh.

"Please. Call me Charlotte. I insist." She didn't break eye-contact once and Peter found himself unable to resist her smile. She was instantly likeable, a trait she had passed on to her son.

"Then call me Peter." She smiled and directed her gaze back at her child, once again bringing her hand to touch Neal's face. "Now, what happened to your face, Neal?"

"We were at a bust and I was pushed. I hit the curb with my face. Broke my nose, split my lip and got a nice headache out of the deal."

"By which he means concussion." Peter chimed in. Neal shot him a glare. Charlotte frowned.

"You poor dear. Let me get you an ice-pack."

"No, mom, it's fine, really." She was already standing.

"Then let me get you boys something to drink. Does lemonade sound good?" They followed her into the kitchen and enjoyed a cold glass of lemonade and some freshly baked cookies as they talked. Finally, they moved back into the living room. Neal thought his head was going to explode. He didn't want to cut the visit short though. He never wanted to leave again.

Charlotte had a mother's instincts though, and she could tell her son was hurting.

"Neal?" She said, laying a pillow in her lap. "Lay down."

"No thanks, I'm fine, mom." He tried to work his dazzling smile, but it had no effect on her. Possessing one herself, she was immune.

"Neal, you never could lie to me. Just lay down, your head must be killing you." Neal relented; resting his head on the pillow as his mother ran her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp as the young man fell asleep.

"Your son's a good man, Charlotte." Peter said quietly. "He's one of the best friends you could ask for. Very smart, very clever." She clucked her tongue in amusement.

"He always has been. He would do anything for his friends. Tell me, Peter. How did he get mixed up in all of that?" She looked worried, the lines on her face growing more evident.

"I don't know. I think he liked the challenge. He was never malicious, not without reason. He was practically the Robin Hood of art theft. Never hurt anyone."

"He was never much of a scrapper." She twirled a thick lock around her finger. "What will happen when he's served his time?"

"My hopes are that the FBI will keep him on as a consultant, though he'll be a free man, he'd be able to choose. But I think he'll stay. He likes it. He likes the challenge." She nodded, satisfied with the answer.

"Does he still paint? Or sketch?"

"Yes. He does. He actually painted a painting for my wife not too long ago. She hung it in the living room. And he sketches too. He's a very talented artist." She sighed wistfully, thinking of a past gone horribly awry.

"Yes, yes he is. I never thought it would lead him to get into so much trouble, though." Peter shook his head.

"Knowing Neal, he would have found trouble whether he could draw or not." She laughed, nodding.

"Yes, yes, that's true. He was always getting into something. Why, I remember when he was just 8, he was disciplined for stealing lunches in the cafeteria line."

"Why did he…?"

"One of his friends, Michael, I believe his name was, couldn't afford lunch. He had no lunch money. Neal just wanted to help." She smiled fondly at the head in her lap. "They didn't know quite what to do with him, so they took away recess. Except he managed to get out there every day. Finally they called me and asked me to do something about it. I told them no. They were punishing him for helping his friend, and if they weren't smart enough to keep one child in a room for thirty minutes, then maybe they shouldn't be teachers." Peter smiled.

"You told them all that?" She nodded.

"I did. And then some, I'll admit. They told me my son didn't have a sense of right and wrong. I asked them, what's wrong about doing anything to help your friend?" Peter smiled.

In that moment, he knew what he'd seen in the sketch the day before, that he hadn't been able to put his finger on; it was the hidden fierceness, the determination to do what needed to be done. If someone told him Charlotte Madison moved mountains to get something done, he'd believe them. She had the same seemingly amoral sense as Neal, not afraid to delve past the black and white rules of right and wrong. It was in those gray areas that they made their differences, doing what should be done.

Peter thought back to one of the first cases they had worked together, where the painting of the grandmother had been stolen. Neal had forged a copy, giving it to the museum and giving the original back to the grand-daughter. Had it been wrong? Yes, but it had been more wrong for the museum to ignore the artist's wishes. Peter had felt inexplicably proud of his partner that day. And he still was.

A/N: Sorry for the delay, but this was the hardest thing I've ever written.


	7. Chapter 7

Neal woke slowly, feeling his mother's fingers gently working their way through his hair. It took him back to when he was younger and he would get sick. She'd always do the same thing. Keeping his eyes closed, he heard her and Peter talking. They were talking about him. He sighed. Peter was reliving one of the times they almost caught Neal, most likely leading up to the time he _did_ catch Neal. Before his mother could learn the conclusion to the story, Neal sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes and stretching.

"Look who's awake. Welcome back to the land of the living." His partner joked. Neal rolled his eyes at Peter before looking around for the clock.

"How long was I out for?" His mother smiled warmly, smoothing his hair.

"Only about half an hour. Do you feel better?"

"Yeah. Much better. Thought I should keep Peter from boring you to death." He smiled at Peter mischievously. Charlotte laughed, shaking her head.

"No, Peter and I were having a nice conversation while you napped. It's fine." Peter smiled and Neal wondered what exactly the agent had said. Judging by that smug smile on his face, he either told mom something or was told something. No doubt that something was embarrassing and about Neal.

"Alright. Where's Paul?" Charlotte smiled.

"He's out fishing with a few of 'The Guys'." She made air-quotes. "I'd call him and tell him you were here, but he doesn't have service on his phone. They should be getting back soon though. They get down there around five in the morning and come back around noon."

"Sounds fun. That's why I never went fishing with him when I was a kid. Too early."

They continued talking and laughing, the conversation rolling smoothly, covering years of time, until the sound of the front door opening.

"Paul!" Charlotte called over her shoulder. "Come in here and see who dropped in!" A moment later, Paul was in the doorway, dropping his tackle when he saw who was sitting on his couch.

"Neal?" He asked.

"In the flesh." He stood, hesitantly walking closer to his step-father.

"It's been a while." Paul began slowly.

"Yeah, it has."

"C'mere." Paul pulled him into a tight hug before looking at him again.

"You look like shit, kid." Everyone laughed. Soon the story was explained and they were in the backyard, scaling fish. Peter had to admit he'd never done that before, but Neal obviously had. He made it look easy. Soon, the fish were cut up and battered, being dropped in the deep fryer while Neal helped his mom set the table.

Peter smiled as he watched his partner. Neal always blossomed in social situations but he was practically glowing now, under the love of his mom and step-dad. Peter had been worried when Paul had first arrived, wondering what he would think of his step-son's career path. However, just like Charlotte, he was willing to forgive those transgressions because Neal was safe and home at last.

They sat down for lunch, quiet for the first few minutes as everyone was eating. Finally, Paul took a long drink and then looked at Neal.

"So I can assume you'll be staying on the up-and-up from now on?"

"I am. Working for the FBI doesn't exactly leave much wiggle room."

"Because when you get off your tracker thingamabob, I expect you to come out here on weekends and keep us old people company." Charlotte laughed and playfully smacked her husband's arm.

"How many times do I have to tell you? We aren't old."

"My gray hairs beg to differ." She rolled her eyes.

"Well, Neal, we'd also love to come out and see you. And I'd love to meet June; she sounds like a wonderful woman." Neal nodded.

"I'm sure June would like to meet you too. You would get along great."

"Well" Paul began, wiping his fingers on a napkin "Anyone who can keep you in line deserves a gold medal." Neal laughed.

"I'm not that bad."

"Anymore." Peter interjected, earning himself a dirty look from his friend. "Did I tell you he used to send pizza to our stake-out vans? And wine bottles?" Neal's parents laughed, looking like they were both proud of him for being so clever and disappointed that the FBI had to be looking for him in the first place. "And" Peter continued "He used to send me hand-drawn Christmas cards and birthday cards." Charlotte squeezed Neal's hand.

"Oh, Neal. You always were such a character. Just like your father." Peter didn't miss the way Neal's eyes darkened but no one else caught it. It had been a long time since they'd studied those almost unperceivable emotions and Neal had gotten much better at concealing what he was thinking since he left home.

Finally, when the sun was starting to set, Peter decided they needed to get going.

"Well, I don't want to say it, but I'm afraid we have to get going back to the city." Neal looked at Peter with pleading eyes but the agent shook his head. Neal understood. It was enough that he'd been allowed to come out here in the first place.

Goodbyes were said, promises to visit soon were made and phone numbers were exchanged. Neal was all smiles as they got into the car.

"Thanks." He said, as Peter began to drive down the street. Peter smiled too. It had been worth it, seeing the look on Neal's face.

"Not a problem. After everything you've done for the FBI, you deserved it." Neal grinned but didn't say anything else. Thinking about the day, trying to remember everything his mom and Paul had said, Neal drifted off to sleep, not waking until the car pulled up in front of the Burke household.

"Don't I ever get to go back to June's?" Peter rolled his eyes.

"Eventually. El's here, she'll take care of you."

"Where will you be?" Neal asked, hand lingering on the seat belt buckle, looking at Peter warily.

"I'm going to run by the office. I'll be right back. Then we need to talk."

"I don't think I like the sound of that." Neal muttered, unbuckling his seatbelt. Peter laughed.

"Just go. El probably wants to feed you or something." Neal sighed and slid out of the car, walking up the familiar steps to the door. When he knocked, Satch came running, barking excitedly until El opened the door, smiling as she let Neal in.

"How was it? How'd it go?" She asked, not missing the smile plastered on Neal's face.

"It went great." He followed her to the kitchen, telling her about his day as he helped her with dinner.

"That's great, sweetie. Here, you do the mashed potatoes while I make the meatloaf." She handed him a few potatoes and went back to her counter.

"Mashed potatoes and meatloaf? Sounds like some real comfort food. Bad day?" He asked, genuinely concerned, as he began to peel the potatoes. She smiled at him softly.

"No. I just thought…well, if everything didn't go well today, I thought maybe you would like it." Neal understood. The comfort food was a precaution, if his day had gone badly, El wanted to do what she could. Sometimes Neal felt like El was his other mom. She and Peter needed to have kids; after all the practice they had taking care of him, they would be great parents.

"Thanks."

"I'm just glad your day went well."

Peter came home to find them both in the kitchen, laughing and talking like old friends. Neal was sitting at the table, trying to keep a bowl of potatoes away from Satchmo and El was doubled over, covering her face with her oven mitt, tears in her eyes from laughing.

"I don't even want to know." Peter pulled the eager dog away from the food. "How long 'til dinner's ready, El?" She glanced at the timer.

"Probably about ten minutes now. Neal, give me the mashed potatoes, I need to keep them warm." Neal handed over the bowl.

"Alright." Peter smiled, kissing his wife on the forehead. "I need to talk to Neal about something but we'll be right back." He motioned for his partner to follow him out into the backyard.

"What are we talking about?" Neal asked, sitting on the porch swing. Peter sat across from him. That was never a good sign. If they were working together on something, Peter usually sat next to him.

"Your dad." Peter could see Neal stiffen, recognizing the tension that held him. "Neal, you can do something. You can make things right again." Neal shook his head.

"My dad's dead, Peter. And as much as I appreciate the faith you have in me, even I can't make that right." He was trying to deflect now, Peter thought. Neal's eyes were wild, searching for an escape route.

"But his killer is still a free man. Is that ok with you, Neal?" Neal gulped, looking towards the window, praying El would save him. "Is it, Neal?" Neal remained silent. "Damn it, Neal, just look at me." Neal flinched but looked up slowly. "Your dad is dead. I'm not trying to say you can bring him back, but you can at least put this Johnson guy away."

"I don't want to." Neal's voice was quiet, the smile that had been a permanent fixture on his face since his mother opened the front door was gone, shaken away by the memories Peter was dredging up.

"Why not? You just want him to go on without suffering for what he did? For what he did to you and your mom?"

"Peter, stop." The agent didn't listen.

"Neal, I looked into it, they never closed the case, it's still an open investigation. It would be best for everyone if you told them what you saw."

"Peter…" Neal pleaded.

"Neal, your testimony could put him away for life. He was already a person of interest to the police, but they didn't have any solid evidence at the time. Ballistics and DNA have both come a long way since then. Between that and you, he could be up for life, without parole. Neal,-"

"Stop!" Neal yelled, the volume of his voice surprising even himself. "Just…just stop." He leaned back against the swing. When he closed his eyes all he could see was the evil smile of Sam Johnson, the smile that haunted him as a kid. He didn't want to remember. The backdoor opened slowly.

"Everything ok out here?" El asked softly. Peter nodded but Neal could only look at her, his eyes wide with a forgotten fear. She walked over, sitting next to him and pulling him into her arms. She could feel him trembling. "Peter, what happened?" Behind her concerned tone was a thinly veiled threat.

"We were just talking, El."

"I don't think Neal wanted to be talking about it. Why don't you go in and set the table, Peter? I'll be right there. The meatloaf still has about five minutes left." When Peter obediently disappeared through the door, El lifted Neal's chin. "What's wrong, honey? What'd Peter say?"

"He…He wants me t-to testify against the guy who killed m-my dad." Neal buried his face in the crook of El's neck, trying to relax as he inhaled the blended smells that defined her; her perfume, her shampoo, the scent of spices and home-cooking that were trapped in her dark hair. Even as he took breath after breath of those, all he could smell was the sharp tang of gunpowder and the musty familiarity of his old couch.

"Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She kissed the top of his head, rubbing his back as a single hot tear hit her neck. "It'll be ok. It will all be ok." He took a shuddery breath, his arms snaking around her, holding himself close to her. "I'm sorry. Peter means well, he really does. He just doesn't know how to show it, that's all." She pulled the crumbling conman tighter into her arms. "It's ok, if you cry, I won't tell Peter." She whispered. Neal put together a watery smile.

"I know. I just don't want dinner to get cold." He lingered for a moment longer in her embrace until the tears no longer threatened to fall. Pulling away, he smiled shyly at her. "Thanks." One tiny word wrapping up so much gratitude, saying in one word what Neal could not say with a thousand.

Thank you for all those times that, just like now, you've held me. Thank you for letting me into your kitchen, teaching me that a home-cooked meal is better than anything in any restaurant in Paris or Rome or anywhere else in the world. Thank you for sometimes just letting me sleep on your couch. Thank you for being everything to me your husband couldn't be; a confidant about semi-illegal activities, a friend to watch movies with on the couch, a nurturing pair of hands that could repair any scrape.

"You're welcome, Neal." _For everything._ She smiled at him, brushing his cheek dry before leading him back to the kitchen. The timer beeped as they entered and El snatched the oven mitt from Peter to remove the meatloaf.

Dinner was quiet. Neal savored the taste of the food, silently thanking El for having made such a comforting meal. He needed it, though not for the anticipated reasons. Avoiding Peter's gaze, he finished his plate, pushing it forward and heading upstairs at El's instruction.

Closing the guest bedroom door, he sighed. He curled up on the bed, both wishing for the quiet reprieve of sleep and dreading the memories that would return. Before sleep could claim him, though, the door opened. Looking up, he saw Peter, standing tentatively in the doorway.

"Neal?"

"What?" Peter sat down next to him, rubbing his arm.

"Look, I'm sorry about what I said earlier. I should have listened to you." Neal nodded. "But, that being said, I don't think you realize what you could do, Neal. You could make things fair again." Neal closed his eyes.

"I can't…Peter, I can't go back…" Peter sighed exasperatedly.

"Neal. Listen to me."

"Why won't you listen to me?" His voice broke; face flushing as he grew closer and closer to breaking himself. "I can't go back. Peter, he tried to kill me, he probably thinks I'm dead. I can't go back and…and I can't do that to my mom. You saw her today, she's happy now. I can't do that to her. I can't." Neal feels his eyes watering but he keeps going. "Please, please don't make me. I can't. I can't even think about it."

Peter pulled Neal up, unsure what to do with the younger man. Neal hid his face in Peter's shoulder. The agent awkwardly rubbed his back, sitting silently while Neal sniffed back tears.

"Alright, ok. I won't bring it up again." Neal nodded, pulling away from Peter and scrubbing his face with his hand.

"Thanks." His voice was small, hoarse, telling of memories held back and nightmares to come.

"I didn't mean to ruin your day. Your mom is pretty cool, huh." Neal smiled.

"Yeah…she is. I was impressed you found her so easily, actually. Not that I'm complaining." Peter chuckled and squeezed Neal's arm.

"Well, I didn't tell you earlier, but it wasn't as easy as it looked." Neal's confused blink urged him to continue. "She was off-radar for years, Neal. Right after you left home, she disappeared. People thought someone kidnapped the two of you." Neal felt a cold spot growing in his chest. "I had Jones compile a file. It's got everything; newspaper clippings, testimony, everything. If you ever want to read it that is."

"Where did she go?"

"No clue. I don't even know how she managed it. Charlotte Madison reappeared about a year and a half ago." Neal nodded. If he had broken his nose eighteen months prior to when he did, Peter wouldn't have been able to find his mom. He wanted to ask Peter more, but the agent wouldn't know any more than he did. And his head hurt.

Lying back down, he fell into an uneasy sleep. Peter didn't leave, rubbing his partner's back as he shifted again and again, seemingly unable to get comfortable. Moaning, he turned again; sweat dampening the back of his shirt.

Watching Neal sleep, ready in case the younger man awoke from his bad dream, Peter thought. He remembered what Charlotte had made him see in Neal, the part of him that sought what was write, whether it was by the book or not. That's what Neal was doing now. He knew it was wrong to let Johnson go, but he thought it would be more wrong to upset his mom so soon after finding her.

Peter smoothed Neal's hair in the same way Mozzie did, hoping he would calm. He didn't. Neal's breathing was growing ragged, his body thrashing to get away from Peter. He woke with a shout, startling the agent. The conman sat stunned for a moment before Peter reacted, pulling the younger man to his chest as he began to shake.

"Shh..shh, you're ok. You're alright, I've got you. You're fine." Neal mumbled something but it was incoherent. "What?" He pulled Neal away so he could hear him clearly.

"I changed my mind. I want him in jail. I want him to pay." Neal's voice was laced with such malice that he could hardly recognize it.

"What changed?" Peter asked, continuing to rub Neal's back.

"He threatened my mom. That's why she hid. He can't mess with my mom." Peter smiled. Neal would do whatever it took to protect those he loved, including tormenting himself with memories of his past.

"I'll give Garden Valley PD a call tomorrow morning. It'll be ok, Neal. You're doing the right thing." Neal nodded, leaning back into the pillow.

"Don't let them drag mom in. Please, just don't." He pleaded as he slipped off to sleep again.

Two months later, Neal Caffrey, formerly Neal Peterson, gave testimony in the trial of Sam Johnson, wanted for the murder of Robert Peterson. As per Neal's request, Charlotte was unaware of the trial. As much as it hurt to lie to her, it would have hurt her worse to have to suffer through the whole ordeal again. Neal was dealing heavily in grey areas.

The trial was exhausting, the defense latching on to Neal's criminal background, making him repeat each and every painful memory. They tried to paint Neal as someone without morals, someone who only wanted to make a profit.

At the end of the last day, Neal gave Peter a tour of the little town, showing him the house where his father was killed and the second house. Finally, he took him down to the creek, the one he used to play in as a child. Neal lay down on the bank, as he had done so many years before, turning his face away from Peter as he cried. Peter sat next to him, rubbing his arm.

When the tears finally ceased, Neal apologized but Peter stopped him.

"You're fine. It's ok." Neal nodded, watching the water rush by over the little rocks and reeds. It seemed nothing had changed, but he knew it had. Some for the better and some for the worse. He still couldn't get the Johnson's smile out of his head. The nightmares were back; just as bad as when he'd been younger.

As Neal drifted off to sleep on the creek bank, Peter smiled at him. In the late-afternoon sun, his partner looked almost childlike. But that childish face had been stony and courageous on trial as he pointed at Sam Johnson, identifying him as the man who killed his father and threatened to kill him. Peter knew it was a mask. He knew that behind the mask, his friend was scared. But he was doing what he felt he had to do. He was keeping his loved ones safe, by laying himself on the line, giving up his mental well-being and sleep for God-knows-how-long so that his mom could sleep in peace at night.

Peter smiled. He trusted Neal completely now, trusting him to always to the right thing, to see beyond the easy yes-and-no of life into the 'maybe's and the 'sort-of' s. He knew Neal would always have his back.

Looking down at his partner's contented face, he mused that this whole adventure had begun with a broken nose, some drugs and the picking of locks.

AN: So sorry for the delay. I ended up in a different state for a while. Hope you enjoy…Also, I almost hate to ask, but how many of you would be interested in a smut fic? With plot, I promise.


End file.
